A Choice Denied
by Kore Anesidora
Summary: Halloween festivities are fast approaching Storybrooke, and Emma realises she must learn to put up with Regina in spite of her reservations. Meanwhile, Regina discovers that true love isn't always something one chooses. Swan Queen. Fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, everyone!**

**This is going to be pretty fluffy. Just warning you. Swan Queen fluff. Mmm...If you want an idea of what my writing will look like for this fic, then go take a look at my TyZula fic. It's going to be like that, but fluffier. Think cotton candy. Bright pink and sugary enough to make your teeth melt. Yup. That. Mixed with just a little angst and steamy Swan Queen goodness in later chapters. Also puns. And Classical allusions. I'm a Classicist. Sue me. **

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Once Upon a Time is not mine. **

* * *

Tapping her fingers along the side of her glass, Regina waited. The time read just past five. They were late. Her eyes narrowed, glittering like black gems, shards of obsidian stripped in flakes to fine points, sharp as surgical tools. She sat in her office, in her chair beside the fireplace. Normally, she would be enthroned upon the swivel-backed chair behind her broad desk, but not today. Henry was supposed to be back by now, accompanied by Miss Swan. At the mere thought of the other woman's name, Regina's grip on her glass tightened until she could feel the thickly cut grooves pressing into her skin.

Outwardly, she was the picture of poise, head tipped regally, hands sculpted, legs elegantly crossed; but little things gave away her inner turmoil - the way her jaw clenched, the way her ankle rolled ever so slightly, the way she continually flicked her hair back in an almost nervous gesture, a bad habit.

Another minute sailed by, the clock above her mantelpiece ticking an even rhythm. A wordless growl escaped her throat, and she raised the glass to her lips once more, taking a dainty sip of hard cider. She told herself that it was because they were late, that punctuality like cleanliness was next to godliness, that Miss Swan would pay dearly for imparting her truant ways to _her_ son, _her_ beloved Henry.

Suddenly voices could be heard from down the hall, lively, enthusiastic. She recognised Henry's immediately, and knew that the lower, more matured timbre must belong to the one and only Sheriff Swan. Her chin lifted, ears perking, and she leaned forward in her hair imperceptibly. Together they entered, door bursting open to admit them. Regina felt her teeth grind at the happy expression on Henry's face, knowing that she would probably never again be the cause behind such a look.

"You're late," she snapped at the two, never moving from where she perched.

Immediately the uninhibited joy fled from their features, and both donned almost identical stony expressions, "Three minutes is hardly late," Emma retorted.

"Late is late, Miss Swan," Regina rose to her feet and crossed the intervening space, "I'll not have you teaching _my son_ such undesirable habits."

"Or what?" Emma stepped forward, so that the two were nearly nose to nose, glaring at one another like two cats in an alley, "You'll give me a detention slip for tardiness?" she mocked.

"Your quips are as ill-aimed as your sense of fashion," Regina hissed in reply.

Henry stood on the side-lines, watching the interaction as though watching a duel. Parry. Riposte. Lunge.

"You know? You're right," a tight smile pulled at Emma's mouth, "Halloween's coming up and I was hoping to dress up as a bitch with a power addiction. Think you could help me with that, Madame Mayor?"

Regina felt an overt sneer tugging at her features, curling her lip. She opened her mouth to deliver an acrid response, but nothing came. Triumph flared in Emma's steely gaze and Regina's brow darkened dangerously. The air between them fairly crackled before Emma broke the staring match to look down at Henry, "Have a good night, kid. See you on Saturday?"

"Sure thing!" he piped up.

And sparing the Mayor one last, withering glance, Emma left.

In her wake, Regina seethed, "Get your things, Henry. Time to go home." She drained what remained of the hard cider, relishing the burn, then snatched up her purse and coat. Placing a firm hand on Henry's shoulder, she steered him to the door and together they marched from the premises.

* * *

Mary Margaret started as the front door slammed shut, spilling hot tea on her blouse. She was patting the scalding liquid with a dish towel when Emma stormed into the kitchen, "Bad day?" she queried cautiously.

"No!" Emma's voice grated and she ripped her jacket off, hurling it onto a nearby chair, "My day was fine. It was great, actually. And then _she_ ruined it."

"Ah. We're talking about Regina again." It wasn't a question.

"She's insufferable! I don't know what her problem is!"

Mary Margaret neatly folded the towel back over its hanger on the oven, turning to the counter to pick up her tea cup once more, handling the burning porcelain with delicate precision, "Well, it certainly doesn't help that you rise to the bait every time."

"I don't believe this," Emma gaped, "You're siding with _her?_"

But the school teacher raised her cup before her as though it were a shield, "Calm down with the '_Kai su teknon'_ act, Emma. I'm not taking anybody's side."

Emma's fair brow furrowed at the Suetonius reference, and Mary Margaret waved it away, "What I mean is: I'm your friend. And I think you should cool off and try to look at this situation from a distance. Just for a moment."

But Emma just shook her head, "I can't. Every time I'm around her, I -!" she clenched her hands into fists and ground out, "She's such a _child_ sometimes! And I can't -!"

Pouring another cup of herbal tea, Mary Margaret scooted it next to Emma, murmuring, "I know. I know. But she's the Mayor. You're the sheriff. And she's the adoptive mother of your son. Like it or not, Emma, you're going to have to put up with one another for a long time."

Emma made a face and slumped into the nearest bar-stool, elbows plunked upon the counter, "Ugh. Don't remind me." She pulled the tea towards her and watched it brew, the black leaves steeping in aromatic, inky swirls.

"I'm not saying you two have to become friends," Mary Margaret leaned her hip upon the kitchen counter and regarded Emma over the island, "but you _do_ have to learn to tolerate one another. If not for Henry's sake, then for your own sanity."

"Easier said than done," Emma grumbled, sipping at her tea. Hot chocolate may be her beverage of choice, but tea or coffee served as acceptable substitutes upon occasion.

Warming her hands on the steaming mug, Mary Margaret asked, "When do you anticipate next seeing Regina?"

"This Saturday. She agreed to let me take Henry out for lunch again."

For a minute, Mary Margaret said nothing. She mused before saying abruptly, "Go see her tomorrow."

Emma almost choked on her tea, "_What_?"

"And bring an olive branch," Mary Margaret gestured with faux severity, pointing her mug at Emma.

"An _olive branch_?" Emma repeated incredulously, as though her friend had suggested she bring a loaded shotgun.

"Trust me," Mary Margaret raised the mug to her lips once more, "The last thing our dear Madame Mayor will expect is a peace offering."

"Yeah, but...What do I get her?" Emma spluttered, "And won't she just be suspicious? 'Greeks bearing gifts' and all that nonsense?"

"Ok, first of all, we need to stop with the 'city-under-siege' metaphors; the underlying sexual imagery therein is really starting to make certain unwanted images stick in my brain. And secondly," Mary Margaret shrugged, nonchalant, "it doesn't have to be anything big. Invite her to go with you and Henry to lunch. Or get her a small trinket. Something. Anything. But no flowers. And no _actual _olive branches. Though that would be amusing..."

Emma was still grimacing from the former statement, "Sexual imagery? Really?"

"Sorry. I've read way too much Shakespeare in my time."

"I'll say," Emma muttered. At last, she sighed in defeat, "Alright. _Fine_. I'll get her a gift. Something to appease the beast's appetite."

At the mention of 'appetite,' a small grin appeared on Mary Margaret's face in spite of herself, and she tried to hide it behind her cup. It did not go unnoticed, "Oh, come on!" Emma grabbed the nearby dish towel and snapped it at her friend playfully, "Mind out of the gutter, MM!"

"Sorry! Sorry!"

* * *

**Kai su teknon: I just transliterated the Greek. Because of reasons. Julius Caesar was reported to have said a few things upon his death, the most famous of which is Shakespeare's "Et tu, Brute." But Shakespeare stole that shit directly from Suetonius, the ancient biographer. In Suetonius' account of Caesar's assassination, Caesar said, "Kai su teknon," which basically means, "You too, my child?" or my personal favourite translation, "You're killing me, smalls!" Caesar was a member of the aristocratic elite; he would've known Greek almost as well as he knew Latin. **

**Anywho, hope y'all liked it. I'll be doing short but quick updates. If you have any questions, comments, concerns or complaints, please either direct them to me via review or PM. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.**

**-Kore**


	2. Chapter 2

**And we're back! I'll be keeping these chapters pretty short, for the sake of quick updates. And for my own sanity. I'm used to writing 20 page chapters - ugh. Tiresome for me as a writer, especially when I have schoolwork and a whole host of other writing projects. So short and sweet it is.**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

Regina was shrugging into her coat when a knock came at the door of her office. Frowning quizzically, she looked up and could just make out the silhouette through the smoky glass panels along the double-doors. Her spine stiffened. That mass of blonde curls and that horrid red jacket were unmistakable. Mouth turning down, Regina finished tugging her jacket into place, flipping her hair from beneath the lapels as she strode purposefully to the doors and opened them, "Miss Swan," she greeted in an overly-honeyed tone, "What a pleasant surprise."

Emma was standing there, hands behind her back, looking for all the world like someone with stage fright forced to give a public presentation, shuffling her feet and scuffing the soles of her boots along the hardwood floors, "Good afternoon, Madame Mayor."

"I'll thank you for not scratching my floor," Regina replied coldly, eyeing Emma's old leather boots with an air of distaste, "now what is it that is detaining me from my lunch break?"

Bristling indignantly, Emma straightened, and her eyes - glaucopous as the Maiden at war - met Regina's squarely, flashing with that familiar pugnacity.

"Well?" Regina arched a dark brow, expectant, "What is it, Sheriff Swan? Or have you come just to try my patience? Or perhaps to shirk your duties to this town?" she took a step forward, invading the other woman's space, as was their wont whenever the two clashed, "Need I remind you that, as an elected official, your actions hold repercussions not only for yourself but for my constituents? Constituents who _pay_ for you to work and not gawk at others all day?"

Instead of an irate retort, though, Emma merely took a deep breath, steadying herself.

Regina was confused. This was not how things normally went between them.

"Here," Emma produced a plain cardboard box from behind her back, shoving it in Regina's direction, eyes darting away once more, "This is for you."

Taken aback, Regina blinked down at the proffered gift before reaching out to take it, somewhat hesitant. Their fingers brushed momentarily, and something unseen and electric arced between them at the contact.

Emma snatched her hands back as though burned, "Y-You should come to lunch with me and Henry on Saturday," she finished lamely, a slight stammer to her words, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and rocking on the balls of her feet in a gesture of awkwardness Regina had never before seen.

An uncomfortable silence descended. For a moment, they said nothing. Regina had the sudden feeling that they were standing far too close, and she retreated to a safe distance. When in the throes of their confrontations, breaking that personal barrier acted as just another display of dominance. Here, in this situation, however, it was entirely out of place. Regina did not know how to react to kindness; she was not accustomed to being presented with it, "I..." she cleared her throat and flicked her hair back from her face with a free hand, "Yes. I think I'll join you on Saturday."

"Good," Emma waved, "Then...uh...I'll see you later."

And with that, she was slouching off down the hall. Scowling in bewilderment, Regina poked her head out the door to watch her go. Once Miss Swan rounded the corner, she withdrew back into her office, walking to her desk and placing the package down. She cut the taped edges open with a pair of scissors retrieved from one of her drawers and, setting the scissors aside, opened the box. Inside, nestled among a sea of tissue paper, sat an apple made of brilliant crimson glass. Lifting it, Regina held it up to the light and admired the clear, scarlet sparkle winking through wine-dark depths.

But then she remembered who had given it to her, and her hand constricted. For a moment, she debated throwing it in the trash, or perhaps even sending it back in pieces to the contemptuous Miss Swan.

Her tight expression dissolved into something unreadable, while sunlight from the windows streamed through the gift, this offering, like a savage and dripping extispicy to a cruel deity. The bloodied light gleamed in Regina's eyes, captured in dark waves, ships crippled by cyclonic storms delivered by her own Junonic ire. Silent, she walked over to the fireplace and almost tenderly set the apple there, right beneath the belly of her white, rampant steed.

* * *

_What the hell was that?_

Emma was staring at her hands, which lay upon the bar-counter at Granny's Diner. Dusk was settling along the horizon, darkening the sky to a pale and dusty lavender. The street-lamps flickered on, one by one, down the main road, shedding small pools of illumination at their bases. People thronged in the diner for supper - it seemed that not many wanted to take the time to actually cook tonight, Emma included.

Thinking, Emma rolled a mug of hot chocolate between her palms, staring off at a spot on the wall opposite the bar. The warmth through the thick-skinned mug seeped into her hands, warding off the New England chill that so seamlessly dwelled in her bones. Boston had its cold spells, but they seemed pitiful in comparison to the raw frore that Main could offer.

_And we're only in October. Fuck me._

That spark, though...That spark had inexplicably warmed her, keeping her hands in a constant tingle, even exposed to the elements as they had been for the remainder of the day - she should really invest in a pair of gloves. If not to ward off the cold, then to ensure that physical contact with the Mayor was kept to a minimum.

Because as much as Emma tried to tell herself otherwise, she found that something had changed in the atmosphere at that touch, a shift in the air, some indescribable metamorphosis, amorphous yet palpable, leaving an almost metallic taste in her mouth.

Hence her current predicament. She found that in spite of her best efforts, she was unable to wrench her thoughts from dwelling upon that fleeting moment. And the fact that so much of her attention had become completely occupied with the one Regina Mills only made her stomach turn. An uncomfortable and unwanted feeling. One Emma was entirely unaccustomed to facing. She did not even know what to call it, what name it ought to bear, if any.

And so it was that Ruby found Emma in deep contemplation, a bemused frown in place.

"Hey, Emma," the waitress greeted cordially. Instead of receiving a reply, all she got in return was a noncommittal grunt.

"Long day?" Ruby fiddled with the cash register in order to retrieve change for another customer.

_Grunt._

"You meeting MM here?"

_Grunt._

Pausing, Ruby cocked her head at the sheriff, who was obviously paying her no attention whatsoever. She handed over the change owed to Leroy, who stomped off, then she leaned in to further question Emma, seeing what it took to get a proper reaction.

"How's Henry?"

_Grunt_.

"I was thinking about seeing what the mysterious Mr. Booth was up to this weekend. What do you think?"

_Grunt._ Though this time, Emma raised the hot chocolate to her lips to take a sizeable gulp.

Ruby twirled a lock of dark hair around her finger, and said cheerily, "Oh hello, Madame Mayor!"

At that, Emma coughed, whipped cream sticking to her nose and upper lip as her head jerked up, looking as though she'd seen a ghost, "_What?_" she glanced around the dinner furiously in confusion, looking for the alleged Mayor.

Ruby just rolled her eyes and tossed a napkin at Emma for the whipped cream still on her face, "Never mind," she said, sauntering off to take someone else's order.

* * *

**glaucopous as the Maiden: a rather vague reference. Sorry. A common epithet for Athena was "glaukopis," which means "grey-eyed" or "doe-eyed." Athena, of course, is the Maiden at war. I swear "glaucopous" is an actual word in English. At least...I think it is o.O Shit. Where's my Oxford English Dictionary when I need it. Oh, right. It's back in America. Fuck my life. WHATEVER. You know what it means now.**

**Junonic ire: a reference to Vergil's **_**Aeneid**_**, wherein the goddess, Juno, convinces Aeolus to release the winds and cause a great storm, which destroys much of Aeneas' fleet. Be prepared for many more such references. I fucking love Vergil. And I can't help but allude to him. You're just going to have to accept this. **  
** And don't even get me started on Regina's very name. Something small and Roman in me dies of the flail every time I think of all the rich imagery and allusions I could draw from Classical tradition and use to further analyse Regina's character. Just...HNNNNGF. Alright. I'm going to stop now, before I write a 10 page analysis on this subject.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Welcome back! Yet another update of this silly fic, when I should be translating my obscene amount of Latin homework. Screw Lucretius. He can wait. Swan Queen takes priority right now. Because of reasons.**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

"Emma, hey-woah! And hello to you too, Madame Mayor," Ruby corrected herself as an unlikely duo walked into the diner. The two women looked supremely uncomfortable with the arrangement, standing as far apart as they could while still being together, and looking anywhere but at one another. Emma's arms were folded and she was rocking on the soles of her feet, while Regina kept surreptitiously flicking her hair from her face with her right hand. Their bodies were angled away from one another.

In an attempt to break the awkward silence that had fallen, Ruby asked, "Aaaaand what brings you two here?"

Henry suddenly popped up from behind Emma, his slight form having previously gone unnoticed, "We're here for lunch," he supplied helpfully.

"Ah...Well! Right this way!" Ruby gestured broadly towards the entire diner, "We're having a lull at the moment, so just sit anywhere and I'll be right with you."

Regina was the first to make a move. She strode over to a booth near the windows, footsteps strong and sure, stilettos gouging the line she walked. As she went, she slipped her coat from her shoulders, revealing an iron grey shirt tucked neatly into the high waistline of her black pencil skirt. Henry followed, automatically copying the Mayor's movements. Emma watched as she trailed after them, noting how they removed their coats in the same fashion; it had never struck her before now how similar they could be, and she wondered how many other little proclivities Henry had picked up from his mother.

The two sat across from one another in the booth, presenting Emma with a small problem. If she were to sit on Henry's side, Regina would doubtlessly view it in a negative light, as though the two were teaming upon her. Or perhaps Emma was simply over thinking things; she seemed to have misplaced Occam's razor. After a moment of indecision, though, she sat beside Regina in a spark of impulsiveness. Both Henry and Regina regarded her with similarly quizzical glances, Regina with a touch more suspicion.

Luckily Ruby reappeared not long after, saving Emma from any unwanted questions, and they were all handed menus and glasses of water. Silent, the trio hid behind their menus as though crouching behind rocky palisades.

Regina's rich voice broke the uncomfortable silence, "Miss Swan."

"Huh?" Emma jerked, peaking over the top of her menu like a soldier peering over the lip of a trench in the Somme Offensive.

"You know you can take your winter-wear off while we're inside," the Mayor directed a pointed look at Emma's coat and scarf, "I assure you the thermostat in this establishment isn't broken."

"Oh, I...Yeah. Of course," she mumbled in return, putting her menu down to start stripping herself of layers. After tugging her newly-bought gloves off, she stuffed them into the pockets of her puffy jacket and wriggled out of it. It was when she was unwinding her scarf that she bumped Regina's menu with her arm, "Whoops! Sorry," she said, at which Regina merely arched a cool brow and sniffed before returning to peruse the selections.

Ruby soon returned, taking their orders, then flounced off, leaving them all to sip their waters and eye one another warily over the rims of their glasses.

"So..." Emma began, tentatively breaking the quiet, "How's school?"

Henry shrugged, "School's good."

"Still getting A's?"

"Yup," he nodded.

"MM isn't going easy on you, is she?" Emma joked, grinning.

Henry returned the grin and shook his head, "Miss Blanchard wouldn't do that," he shot back.

"She better not be," Regina muttered darkly into her glass.

"I was joking, Regina," Emma rolled her eyes when the Mayor's only response was another haughty sniff.

More awkward silence. Emma drummed her fingers on the table top. Something to break the unnatural calm, anything.

Until, "Have you decided what you wanted to be for Halloween?" she asked Henry.

Immediately his face brightened, "I'm going to be a zombie this year!"

"A zombie?" she repeated with a tsk of disappointment, "That doesn't sound very original."

But he just smiled, a wicked looking gleam entering his eyes, "You've never seen mom's costumes before. She makes the best."

"Is that so?" Emma turned to regard Regina, who simply shrugged.

"I enjoy Halloween as much as any other," she brushed the compliment off, "Besides, All Hallow's Eve is important to this town. What sort of Mayor would I be if I didn't give it my all?"

"Humility doesn't suit you," Emma retorted good-naturedly, and was rewarded with a dark warning glare, which only made her smile broaden.

Their conversation - halting though it may have been - was unfortunately cut short, as Ruby came, bearing a tray upon her shoulder with their food. With a congenial, "Enjoy!" she set the plates in their respective places.

Wasting no time, Emma picked up her cheeseburger and began eating, tearing a large bite with her even teeth. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Regina and Henry both place napkins on their laps, and even though Regina's had a bit more flourish to it, the gestures remained the same. Henry started making headway with his side of french fries, while Regina primly ate her salad, fork and knife in hand. With no small amount of gusto, Emma proceeded to devour her meal - she hadn't had more than a cup of coffee this morning after all. In her enthusiasm, her elbows crept out along the tabletop and Regina's nudged her as the Mayor dug her fork into crisp greens. Immediately the two recoiled from one another at the contact, momentarily ceasing their repast in order to exchange narrowed glances. But Regina broke the staring match by reaching over to pluck at Emma's napkin and wave it in the sheriff's line of sight, "Clean yourself up, Miss Swan. You have ketchup on your face."

Cheeks burning, Emma snatched the napkin from Regina and wiped at her mouth. Meanwhile Henry watched the proceedings with a mystified expression.

"What are you going to be for Halloween, Emma?" he ventured after swallowing another wedge of fried potato.

Grateful for the distraction, Emma replied, "I don't know. I was going to be a normal person."

This earned her disapproving stares from both parties, and all eating stopped abruptly.

"What?" she asked, confused, "Normal people are scary!"

"But you _have_ to dress up!" Henry insisted, a subtle whine edging his voice.

Emma gave an apologetic shrug, "Sorry, kid. But I don't have anything. And Halloween's just around the corner. I don't have time to put together a costume."

Regina, however, decided to see an end to that argument, "Come by the house after tomorrow's town preparations. I'll see if I can whip something up for you."

"What? Are you just going to snap your fingers and wish a costume into existence for me?" Emma drawled dryly.

Regina fixed her with a disapproving look, "No, Miss Swan. I was going to have you try on a few of the old outfits I keep in storage from previous years."

"Oh!" Emma seemed surprised and found herself hesitating to refuse such an offer, reluctant though she may have been. Mary Margaret's voice played through her head, an admonishing, '_Play nice..._' which she could not ignore, "Well...Thanks. I guess." She turned back to her cheeseburger, but instantly did a double-take, "What. What '_town preparations'_?"

"Honestly, Miss Swan. Don't you ever listen during town meetings?"

* * *

The next day saw the town abuzz with people. Nearly every member of town was milling about, preparing for the coming celebrations. Pumpkins crowded every street corner. Scarecrows and other effigies were strung upon lamps. Men unloaded bales of hay into towering stacks upon the village green, where a convoluted maze was to be erected. Booths and stands sprang up from the ground, people stringing lanterns and lights between them. At one such booth, Mary Margaret stood, winding together straw figures. One side of the booth already bore a pile of these puppets.

Ruby, bundled in a coat even though her shapely legs were left bare to the elements, walked up and handed her a cup of coffee, "You look cold."

"Thanks," Mary Margaret took the proffered beverage, smiling and nodded to Ruby's exposed legs, "You look colder."

"It's a cross I'm willing to bear," Ruby sighed dramatically, "For the good of the town!"

Mary Margaret shook her head and laughed, "Such a martyr!" sipping on her coffee before setting it to the side and picking up another straw man.

"Uh oh...Looks like World War III is imminent."

Mary Margaret looked up, following Ruby's line of sight to where two individuals stood, bickering, "Oh, damn it," she muttered, seeing Emma's cheeks flushed with anger as she and the Mayor argued, "I _told_ Emma to try to get along with Regina."

Ruby snorted, "And you thought it would work?"

"Hey! It's better than them fighting all the time!" her busy hands slowed in their movements, though they never fully stilled, continuing to wind together the small straw men.

"Those two could be trapped in paradise together and they'd still find a way to fight," Ruby hopped up to sit on the table, legs swinging over the side, and picked up two of the finished straw figures from the large pile, using them like dolls to mime a conversation between Emma and Regina, "_Miss Swan, you're soaking up all my heavenly rays - Shut up, Regina. There's enough Jesus sunlight for everyone._"

Mary Margaret couldn't help but laugh, "Heaven's a beach now, is it? With Christ literally beaming beatifically?"

Ruby looked especially mischievous, "You bet. A nude beach. And everyone is young and beautiful."

"Sign me up," Mary Margaret was placing another finished straw man to the side, when they saw Emma make a movement, "Oh, no..." Mary Margaret watched, "Hands are on hips. Emma means business."

Ruby bent the arms on one of the straw men, mimicking Emma's stance, "And the sheriff makes a bold stand! How will our Mayor react?" Her voice droned as though she were a sports commentator.

Mary Margaret was now too engaged in their spectating to work, "Oh! Regina just tossed her head! She's going in for the kill!"

Ruby shook Regina's doll menacingly at Emma's doll, "And the Mayor employs a classic distraction manoeuvre with her hair-porn! It's super effective!"

"How will our noble Sheriff survive this latest addition to the Mayor's arsenal? Will she endure?" Mary Margaret managed to say around her giggles.

"Or," Ruby stated dramatically, "will she fall prey to the Mayor's wicked wiles?!" With that, she mashed the two dolls together, making snarling animal noises, until they were a violent tangle of limbs.

Mary Margaret could not, for the life of her, stop grinning. She pointed at the mini war going on in Ruby's hands, "Are they fighting or making sweet sweet love?"

"Oh, honey," Ruby's smile was impish, "ain't nothin' sweet about _this_ lovin'."

Their tittering carried, however, and suddenly the waitress froze, all laughter cutting off, "Shit, they're looking over here!" Ruby stuffed the Regina and Emma dolls behind her back and leapt from the table.

Meanwhile Mary Margaret fumbled for more straw, "Shh! Act normal!"

"Normal?" Ruby hissed, dubious, "I don't think anyone in this town knows what _normal_ is!"

"Oh, you know what I mean," Mary Margaret pretended to be wholly engaged in making the straw men, "As normal as we can manage."

Snatching up a handful of straw and turning to the side in order to make it seem like she hadn't been spying on Emma and Regina, Ruby unsuccessfully tried making a doll, managing to just lash together a sad bundle of yellowish stalks, "Yeah," she stared glumly down at her disastrous attempt at a straw man, "I fail at normal."

"Well, at least you're not alone in that."

* * *

**Occam's razor: a principle which states that "the hypothesis that makes the fewest assumptions should be selected." In other words, Emma's over thinking this situation and needs to just sit the fuck down. Right next to the Mayor. So that shenanigans may ensue. God, I love being a writer. I can make these guys do whatever I want. Dance, character! DANCE TO MY DEPRAVED TUNE.**

**Somme Offensive: Also known as the "Battle of the Somme," took place during World War I between July 1st - November 18th, 1916, on either side of the river, Somme, in France. With casualties of over 1 million, the Somme Offensive is one of the bloodiest battles in recorded history. Gotta love that Trench Warfare, or - as I like to call it - the "Meat-Grinder."**


	4. Chapter 4

**Wow. This chapter is longer than I expected. Not that I'm complaining. I'm just a bit surprised is all. **

** Enjoy!**

** Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

When Emma and Regina fought, it took a great deal of thought on Emma's part to remember what it was they were fighting about in the first place. Usually, their arguments began with something small and unassuming, but between the two of them, the object or situation in question would inevitably blossom into some far larger contrived grievance. At the end of the day, though, Emma could barely remember what that small object or situation was in the first place. Was it Henry? They often fought about things concerning him. Or perhaps it was her duties as sheriff? Regina seemed to take great pleasure in creating twists in schedules so that Emma would be late, or so that Emma had to work an extra hour or two overtime - small things, but they needled nonetheless.

So it was that Emma found herself just as sullen as ever after an afternoon spent with Regina for the town's All Hallow's Eve preparations. They had indulged in a typical ongoing series of quarrels as they had supervised plans together. Thankfully, Regina had been called away for some reason or another at around lunchtime and told Emma to stop by the house at 4 in the afternoon, so that they could peruse her collection for a suitable costume.

Grumbling under her breath, Emma knocked on the Mayor's front door, her fist pounding unceremoniously onto the lacquered wood. She jumped when a voice sounded to her right, "Over here, Miss Swan."

"Christ!" Emma put a hand over her heart, startled. Regina was standing off to the side, across the perfectly manicured lawn and in the direction of the garage, "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

But Regina just crossed her arms and insisted, "I did _not_ sneak up on you. That would imply that I am actually close to you. As it is, I'm more than twenty feet away. Now are you coming over here, or am I going to have to bring out the costumes one by one?"

Growling, Emma stomped down from the steps leading to the front door and started across the lawn. She had not taken two steps, though, when a noise like a cat being stepped on came from the Mayor's direction, "_Not on the grass, Miss Swan!_" came the low hiss.

Emma froze where she stood on the trimmed grass, looking back to see a deep impression where she had stepped on the lawn, "Uh..." she hesitated not knowing whether she should proceed or retreat, "Well, I'm already on the grass, so..."

Regina saw that Emma made to proceed in her path across the grass, "Don't you dare," she warned, jabbing a finger in the sheriff's direction.

But her threats fell upon heedless ears, it seemed. Indeed, a look akin to impish glee crossed Emma's features as she continued across the lawn, directly for Regina, treading with even less grace than usual, digging her heels into the plush soil. By the time Emma made it to her side, Regina was positively fuming, eyes flashing febrile and deadly as Jove's swift fires from the heavens. Instead of looking the least bit contrite, Emma just shrugged, "Much as I hate to break it to you, Regina, your lawn isn't a golf green."

The Mayor bit back a sharp retort and instead whirled on her heel to storm away. Emma followed, knowing that she probably shouldn't have goaded Regina on like that, but feeling supremely pleased with herself regardless. Together they entered the garage and, frowning, Emma pointed out, "I've been in her before. I don't remember seeing piles of costumes anywhere," she gestured broadly with her arms to make her point; there wasn't a costume in sight.

Instead of answering, Regina swept by her, ignoring her, and leaned down to yank on an iron ring fastened to a trapdoor in the concrete floor that Emma had missed her first time here. With a rusty scrape of hinges, the trap door swung open, revealing a set of steep stairs into a dark room below, looking more like a bottomless pit, some yawning chasm into the deep clutches of the earth, like the bowels of Orcus roiling with hidden and unspeakable terrors.

"Ok...that's not creepy at all," Emma gazed down skeptically as Regina started her descent.

Regina's voice floated up through the darkness after she disappeared, "Are you coming, Miss Swan?"

"Do I have to?" she tried to keep the whine from her words, but they came through anyway, plaintive.

A tone of irritation coloured Regina's voice a deeper timbre, "Miss Swan..." she admonished.

"Can you at least turn on a light or something?" Emma made a vague, lost gesture down at the pit.

"I never took you for one who was afraid of the dark," nevertheless there came a click, and lights warmed the space, "Satisfied?"

Finally, Emma followed, boots clunking hollowly on the wooden steps. When she emerged into the expansive room below, she stopped and stared. Sprawled across the room were a plethora of stations and work-benches, each with a designated craft: sewing, painting, drawing, pottery, woodwork, gardening. And was that a kiln in the corner?

Taking in Emma's surprised and somewhat awed expression, Regina quipped, "What were you expecting? A dungeon?"

"Wouldn't put it past you," Emma mumbled.

Regina chuckled dryly, "Sorry to disappoint."

Continuing to survey her surroundings, she approached the pottery station, "Were you born in the Renaissance or something?"

But Regina waved the comment away, "I dabble."

Emma carefully ran her fingers along the glazed edge of a deep, forest-green vase, "I wish my dabbling looked like this," she muttered to herself, "Why do you keep all this down here anyway? And how do you find the time to do all this?"

"I like to work in private," Regina was making her way over to the sewing corner, where there stood a long rack of clothes, guarded by two sentinel mannequins, one for a woman, the other for a boy, "And, in case you haven't noticed, my social life isn't exactly scintillating."

Emma reached the section of the room devoted to painting and admired some of the canvases that were leaned up neatly against the wall. All but one was facing outwards, open to view. Curious, Emma reached out, fingers gripping the edge and tilting it back. She only caught a quick glimpse of the portrait of a handsome young man - the colours of the piece overall dark and gloomy so that he seemed to loom from the shadows like a paling shade of Acheron - before Regina appeared at her side and slammed the picture back into place, face dark as a brewing storm.

"I..." Emma stepped back, nervous; she had never seen Regina look quite so _furious_, "I'm sorry. I just..."

Regina did not answer. She moved forward, eyes black as distant tempests and just as menacing. Something baleful gathered there, swirling miasmic clouds, promising an unrelenting malice, an unbridled furor. But just as suddenly as she advanced, she stopped, breathing deeply, and that gaze of wild ire slowly cleared. Her voice was heated, even though her words were cold enough to freeze the walls over with slick ice, "You will not touch _anything_ unless I give you permission otherwise."

Emma nodded, hands raised in surrender.

Regina jerked her head in the direction of the sewing corner, and immediately Emma started for it, the Mayor hot on her heels, now watching her every move. When they arrived at the rack of clothes, Regina spoke again, still sounding tense, "You may choose from any of these."

"Thanks."

Emma began sifting through the costumes. Most were a collection of rich dresses, fantastical in design. Some, however, were obviously intended for Henry, involving gothic horror themes and the like. The kid obviously had a penchant for the likes of Stoker and Stevenson. "What is this?" she asked, holding up a strange looking costume for Henry.

"Mephistopheles," Regina stepped forward and ran her fingers lovingly over one of the red velvet hems, "Henry liked Goethe's _Faust_."

"Shit," Emma muttered, impressed, dropping the hanger back onto the metal bar, "I still can't get through _Faust_."

Regina hummed a wordless response, then added, "I read most of the 'classics' to him at night."

At this, Emma looked over, incredulous, "You would read things like _Faust_ to a kid? As bedtime stories?"

"It's better than reading him that derivative trash from the Brothers Grimm," Regina countered defensively, "Fairy tales may seem nice, but they're anything but picture-perfect, Miss Swan. I would rather have my son raised with classic literature than the fabulous lies told by fairy tales."

Emma just shook her head and turned back to her inspection, "Never mind. Forget I asked." She came across an outfit and paused, cocking her head to better regard it, "Huh...What about this one?"

Upon seeing which outfit Emma was holding, Regina's expression seemed to lighten, "An excellent choice. I'll just need to make a few small modifications. What are your measurements?"

But Emma only blinked, "My what?"

For a moment it seemed that Regina could not tell if Emma was joking or not. Then she sighed and snatched up a neatly rolled measuring tape from the nearby worktable, gesturing dismissively at Emma's clothes, "Off."

"_What?_" she spluttered, cheeks growing pink.

"You heard me, Miss Swan."

"I am _not_ taking off my clothes for you."

Regina fixed her with a firm stare, "Not _all _of your clothes. Just your jacket will suffice."

A breath of air gratefully whooshed from Emma's gut, "Oh, thank god," she said, shrugging off her puffy jacket and tossing it across the back of a nearby chair.

With a sharp snap from Regina's fingers, which fluttered outward, Emma raised her arms and stood there, looking supremely uncomfortable as Regina moved in closer, but the Mayor worked briskly, efficient and professional. It was only when Regina knelt down and nudged at her legs that Emma felt her discomfort grow.

An irritable sigh came from Regina, "Miss Swan, you're going to have to move your legs so I can take your inseam."

Hesitating, Emma eventually did as requested, stepping out with one foot. As Regina's hands stretched the tape from ankle to crotch, Emma look anywhere but down, teeth worrying at her lower lip. It took only a moment, though, and soon Regina was standing right in front of her, arms reaching around her waist. Emma leaned back when the crown of Regina's head brushed against her jaw, dark hair tickling her nose.

"Exhale for me," Regina ordered, hands at her hips, holding the tape in place.

Emma had not even realised she had been holding her breath until she breathed out at Regina's request. She looked down to see those adroit fingers move upwards, pulling the tape around her bust. As Regina noted the measurement, her dark eyes flicked up. Their gazes met and they froze, deer in the headlights.

This must have been the first time Emma had ever been so close to Regina while they weren't fighting. A stillness lingered in the air, charged with friction, but it was not from contention this time. This time it was from something else entirely. For a few long, strained moments, the two did nothing more than search each other's gazes, almost as though looking for answers or daring the other to speak, to move, to somehow break the spell that had been cast over them, thick and syrupy, making the air crackle.

Finally, Emma dared to ask, "Are you finished?"

"I...Yes," Regina stepped away, slinging the tape around her shoulders in a practiced movement. She flicked her hair from her face, clearing her throat and moving towards the sewing table to mark the measurements down on a piece of paper, fingers clenching white around a pencil that she picked up, "See yourself out, Miss Swan. I'll drop the costume off at the sheriff's department tomorrow afternoon."

Without another word, Emma grabbed her jacket and fled, quickly climbing the stairs and disappearing from sight, leaving Regina alone in her workshop. Her hand tightened on the pencil until the thin sliver of pine snapped in her palm.

Staring down at the measurements, jotted down in her elegant scrawl upon a notepad, Regina's teeth ground together and she swore, "Damn it."

* * *

**Jove's swift fires: another expression for 'lightning.' **_**ZAP**_**, muthafuckaaah!**  
**Wow. I have no idea where that last part came from. Hurray for internet anonymity!**

**Orcus: another name for the Roman god of the underworld. He and Dis Pater were later subsumed by Pluto, the Roman equivalent of Hades. In some instances, however, the names 'Dis' or 'Orcus' could also simply stand for the underworld itself, which is how I'm using it here. The name 'Orcus' also pops up in Dungeons and Dragons - I know this because I love being a DM. **  
**CONFESSION: I never leave the house without my dice. Then again, I also never leave the house without a notepad, some writing implement, and a book. Preferably my 1969 Oxford Classical Text of Vergil's complete works. **

**There is a god. His name is Homer. And Vergil is his prophet.**  
**This is all. **

**paling shade of Acheron: here I be referring to ghosts. "Shades" are another word for "souls" or "ghosts." And "Acheron" is another name for the underworld. **  
**It's shit like this that reminds me of just how selective my Classical education is. I know 5 words off the top of my head for the Graeco-Roman underworld, and I know 3 different words for "sword," but I can't ask for the location of the bathroom in Latin. Obviously, using the restroom is for the weak. Real Romans only describe battles and bloodshed. FOR THE GLORY OF ROME.**

**-Kore**


	5. Chapter 5

**Aaaand, we're back again. Excellent. I haven't lost steam with this fic yet. I'm still on that "new-fic" high. Let's hope it stays that way for another 5 chapters or so. **

**I would also like to take the time to hereby thank all of you, my lovely readers, for your support and kind words. **

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

Ruby was walking back from serving another table, when she passed Emma Swan at the bar of Granny's, stuffing her face with food faster than she could chew. The waitress rounded the bar to stand opposite Emma, "Slow down there! We wouldn't want you choking; I can't do the Heimlich manoeuvre to save...well, _your_ life, for one."

Emma barely glanced up at Ruby's words, too consumed with her food, "Can't slow down. Gotta get back to work soon."

"Then don't blame me when they're carting your dead body away. I can just see your tombstone now," Ruby spread her hands theatrically, voice lowering to a solemn whisper, "Emma Swan: Loving Mother, Killed by French Fries. May We Never Again Eat Potatoes."

Emma jabbed a french fry in her friend's direction, the end dripping with ketchup, "Have you ever considered a job in acting? You certainly excel in histrionics."

But Ruby was unfazed, grinning broadly, "I'm taking that as a compliment."

With a cheery tinkle, the bell to Granny's door announced another customer, admitting with it a gust of cold air, damp with a sort of half-rain; October weather was decidedly indecisive.

"Hello, Madame Mayor!" Ruby greeted, smiling.

At this, Emma did not look around, "Yeah, yeah. I'm not falling for that one again."

"Falling for what, Miss Swan?" came Regina's clear voice from right behind her.

Emma just about jumped out of her skin. She choked on a french fry and was sent into a bout of hacking coughs, eyes wide.

"Please don't die, Miss Swan. I'd hate to have made those tailoring adjustments for nothing," Regina said dryly, watching Emma cough and thump her chest with a fist.

Seizing her drink, Emma gulped down a few mouthfuls, then sat back, gasping, "Christ. You're going to be the death of me one of these days, Regina."

Regina, however, was in no mood for their usual banter, it seemed, for she replied back, brusque and trenchant, "You weren't at the sheriff's office."

Frowning in confusion, Emma gestured at her food, "Yeah. I'm having a quick bite to eat."

"You seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time _not_ performing your duties," Regina's voice was icy.

"Well, excuse me for needing food," Emma grumbled back, picking up her half-eaten cheeseburger and saying around a messy bite, "Not all of us can be HAL 9000."

Bristling, Regina's back straightened. Something in her dark eyes flashed, "I left the costume at your office," and she leaned in to hiss in Emma's ear, "_You're welcome._"

And then she stormed out, heels clacking angrily across the linoleum floor, slamming the door shut behind her.

Staring after her, Emma shook her head in wonder, then turned back to her food.

Ruby sidled up and leaned her elbows on the bar, chin resting on her hands. She studied Emma for a moment, before asking, "Do you remember when you were a little kid and there was always that one boy who would pick on you more than usual? And then you found out years later it was because he actually liked you?"

Emma's eyebrows climbed her forehead in an expression of disbelief, "Did you just compare Regina to a pre-pubescent boy?"

"I'm saying that in this particular instance Regina and pre-pubescent boys have something in common."

"That being...?"

"They're terrible at showing affection," Ruby said as though it was obvious.

Emma snorted and stuffed another french fry into her mouth, mumbling around it, "Well, who died and made you the Mayor-Whisperer?"

"I'm just sayin'..." Ruby put up her hands and shrugged.

"Yes, and what you're saying is preposterous," Emma snapped, suddenly waspish, "There is nothing between me and Regina. So, drop it."

"Getting a little defensive there, don't you think? Besides, I never said 'romantic' affection. Just affection."

"Drop it, Ruby," Emma growled, lifting her drink to her mouth to take a sip.

"Why? Are you scared I might be right? 'Tis the season for fear, after all..."

"Alright," Emma stood abruptly, reaching for the wallet in the back pocket of her jeans, "I've had enough of this. And I have work to do." She slammed down the money owed and left.

* * *

Regina was pacing her underground workshop. She had taken off her uncomfortable heels; her footsteps were muffled and soft. Normally she would despise walking across the ground in her bare feet - it was a pet-peeve of hers, stepping in wet things, or having small pieces of debris sticking to her soles - but the floor had been recently swept, and the heating that extended through the wooden floor boards seeped up, warming her feet. Besides, her mind raced, tumbling over and over, circling a subject she viewed with a mixture of anger, distaste and fear. Certainly not a winning combination.

Emma Swan occupied her thoughts far more than she was comfortable with, to be perfectly honest. She had not been able to stop mulling over that moment they had shared just the day before, in this very room. Regina looked over at her sewing corner, vividly remembering the scene, playing it again in her mind's eye: the gaze held too long, the snagged breathing, the warmth of the body beneath her hands.

Eyes narrowing, Regina whirled in an abrupt about-face. She snatched up her palette and slammed a fresh canvas into place, securing it onto the easel. Coating the flat surface with a layer of white, she deposited a range of varied colours upon her palette and began to paint. It began with broad strokes, sweeping with the curve of her wrist, supple movements, all agility and sinew. But while she worked, her mind continued with its inner turmoil.

Like so many things about the other world, True Love was just another mandate thrust upon her. She did not ask for it. She did not want it. Her first love had died long ago, and the experience had been so painful, she had resigned herself to never loving again. Of course, things never went as planned.

Because then the delectable Miss Swan had arrived and ruined everything.

_Delectable?_

Regina clenched her teeth, hand tightening on the paintbrush until the hair tip trembled. She did not know for how long she worked. During stages like these, time always seemed to slow to a crawl, as though clawing its way through the earth, sound muffled. Normally, she would set alarms for herself, so that she knew when to stop, else she would simply lose track things, and before she knew it, Henry would be calling down to her from the garage, wondering if she needed water. This time, though, Regina did not stop until she was finished, until her vision was blurred over around the edges, and her feet ached from supporting her weight without reprieve for so long.

When she finally let her arm hang, palette in one hand, thumb hooked through it, brush held loosely in the other, Regina stepped back and looked at what she had wrought, feeling drained.

Emma, reaching out through the canvas as though to pull the viewer through. With a sudden snarl, Regina smeared paint across Emma's smooth features with her hand, scraping her fingers along the canvas until deep grooves appeared, but those clear sea-green eyes still stared out, threatening to drown her in their depths.  
She turned away from her creation, tossing her palette to the side, not caring where it landed. Without thinking, she put one hand on her hip, the other reaching up to clench the bridge of her nose. Swearing, she pulled away and looked down to see that she had accidentally left a red handprint on her clothes, mangled and glaring. Her slacks were ruined.

Somehow, she blamed Miss Swan for this. For all of this.

* * *

**HAL 9000: the AI from **_**2001: A Space Odyssey**_**. I'm giving this reference a footnote just in case some people didn't get it. If you are one of those people, then I hereby deliver a cyber-smack right across your face. Go. Watch it. NOW. Enrich your life and your cultural wherewithal.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello again, my friends!**

** I've gotten some mixed reviews about all my Classical allusions. So I have both good and bad news. Depends on which side of the fence you stand. I love Classics. The Classical allusions aren't going anywhere. If you like them: YAY! If you don't: err...sorry I'm not sorry? In my defense, the only person I ever had quote Greek was Mary Margaret, who I hope is well educated since she's a teacher. Emma quoted Vergil's **_**Aeneid**_**, but it was in English and it was a very **_**very**_** well known phrase. If you don't know the phrase "I even fear the Greeks bearing gifts" or some variation of it, then...well. I won't say anything, lest I sound judgmental. Which I am. Unashamedly. Especially where Classics are concerned. Sorry I'm not sorry for that either. Let me just say this: if you haven't read Homer or Vergil (not all of their work but at least **_**SOME, **_**my god), then I will judge you. But mostly, I'll just feel sad. For you. Because you're missing out on some kickass literature. **

** But enough of that! You didn't come here to read about my love of ancient Rome - vast though it may be. No! You came here to read some good old fashion Swan Queen lovin'. Mmmmhmmmm. **

** Not that there's going to be sex in this chapter. Future chapters? Oh, we shall see :)**

** Enjoy!**

** Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine**

* * *

"Wow," was the first word out of Mary Margaret's mouth when she saw Emma stamping across the village green in her costume.

While not the most graceful creature, Emma certainly could not help but feel somewhat elegant in this outfit. Over a dark leather cuirass, she wore a spotless white tabard, and fastened around her shoulders was a trailing white cloak that swept out behind her when she walked. Leggings of black wool were tucked into her knee-high boots, and a sword clanked against her thigh, slung across her waist, while long dagger was strapped to the wide baldric that crossed her chest and back. When she had first tried the outfit on, she had struggled with how everything fit together. It had come with a dark undershirt as well that extended to her wrists, and heavy padded gloves of white leather that covered her forearms. For a good fifteen minutes, she had struggled with the cuirass, putting it on backwards at first, but eventually everything had fit together nicely and she had sized herself up in the mirror with an impressed nod.

She had to hand it to Regina: the woman knew how to make a costume. Though where she had gotten the sword and dagger was beyond her.

The townspeople milled about, laughing and talking. Children in tacky costumes scampered across the grass. A few were begging early admittance to the sprawling maze of haystacks, only to be turned away by David, dressed as a pirate. Night was beginning to wash across the land, painting it with lilac hues. But paper lanterns had been strung up between the many stalls, and upon every stall's counter a pile of candles bloomed with an orange light. The stalls all held carnival activities or sold food. Some gave away candy for free, while others offered larger prizes should the game be won, stuffed animals and masks and bands that illuminated with bright neon colours. In the center of it all, an enormous bonfire had been lit; a live band played nearby, their songs mainly comprised of lively folksy tunes.

It was, without a doubt, the best Halloween party Emma had ever seen. Rustic, perhaps, but what it lacked in urbanity, it certainly made up for in enthusiasm and character.

"No, no! Don't tell me!" Mary Margaret's cute face scrunched up in concentration when Emma reached her, "Joan of Arc?"

Emma blinked and looked down at herself, "I honestly have no idea. I just thought it looked less frilly than the others."

"Frilly?" Mary Margaret laughed, "I honestly doubt Regina even owns anything remotely _frilly._"

"You know what I mean," Emma grumbled, "It was less..." she gestured wildly with her arms, hands flapping.

"...Risqué?" Mary Margaret supplied helpfully.

"I was going to say _flamboyant._ But that too."

Mary Margaret just shook her head with a chuckle, "Regina does love to go a bit overboard during Halloween. Did you see what she was planning on wearing this year?"

Emma shook her head, "Nope. But if it's anything like this, then I'm sure it'll be fantastic. I mean, holy shit," she fingered the cloth of her tabard, "Did she go back in time and steal this from Joan's sad and sorry corpse?"

"I imagine if she had, it would look a lot crispier," Mary Margaret pointed out, "And trust me, you haven't seen anything yet."

But Emma brushed the comment away, "And what're you supposed to be? A tavern wench?"

Mary Margaret gasped in feigned offense, smoothing her hands defensively across her long dress, a pale blue, cotton creation vaguely Medieval in design, "I just so happen to be Maid Marian."

"That was my next guess," Emma lied.

At that moment, they were hailed across the village green by Ruby and Henry, who trotted over to them. They passed by Dr. Whale, dressed as a mad scientist, throwing darts at a plank of wood upon which had been painted a cartoon Frankenstein's monster, "We were just looking for you!" Ruby exclaimed, hand on hip, a bright smile across her face. Tight black leather sheathed her entire person, hugging her curves, and a black leather mask covered the top half her face. It could not have been a warm costume, by any stretch of the imagination, but she sauntered through the cold October air with nary a batted eyelash.

Mary Margaret took in the waitress' outfit and laughed, "Catwoman? I should have known."

Ruby waggled her eyebrows and made a growling noise, swiping the air with her claws in Mary Margaret's direction, comically flirtatious. Mary Margaret just rolled her eyes and swatted at Ruby's arm playfully.

"And _you_," Emma gestured down at Henry, eyes wide, "You look legitimately terrifying."

He grinned up at her, strands of skin hanging pendulously from his pallid face, eyes glinting from sunken sockets. His clothes hung in rags on his frame and Regina had skillfully lavished him with cosmetics, so that it seemed as though great rents had been torn in his flank, revealing fetid entrails, "Told you my mom was good at this."

Emma smiled wryly, "You can say that again. Hey, where is your mom anyway?"

"She's preparing for her big entrance," Henry replied matter-of-factly.

The other two didn't seem to object to that comment, but Emma's nose crinkled at the thought, "Her _big entrance_? What is this, her stage or something?"

"Let's just say," Mary Margaret supplied, "Regina..." she faltered, tapping a hand on her chin, "Hmm...Actually, I don't know how to put this nicely..."

"She's an attention-whore," Ruby said, blunt.

"Ruby!" Mary Margaret admonished, looking pointedly at Henry and back.

"Oh, right," Ruby cleared her throat, "Let me rephrase that: Only on Halloween is she an attention-whore."

At this point, Mary Margaret just hung her head in her hands, "Tell us how you really feel, Ruby. I think you're too repressed."

Emma was too busy stifling her laughter, "Yeah, you might want to go talk to Dr. Hopper. He might be able to help with those repression issues."

They would have continued with their friendly banter, but suddenly the lanterns all flickered before fizzing off ominously. Only the candles and bonfire offered any light now, and darkness inked the sky, the horizon illuminated only by a thin sliver of orange. The band's music screeched to a halt. Thick, soupy fog whirled, clinging low to the ground, appearing out of thin air. Everyone looked around, their actions tense but excited, delighted smiles twitching upon their faces. The distant thunder of falling horse-hooves rose through the air, circling the village green. And then a dark horse and its rider burst upon the scene, wheeling around the bonfire, black cape streaming like a banner, rallying soldiers upon the field of battle. The steed ground to a halt in front of the fire and reared up, front legs slashing at the fog as though at a great snake.

Raising its arm, the rider lifted a pumpkin aloft, carved with a fierce face that burned bright with flames, then hurled the pumpkin to the earth, where it burst in a blazing arc. A few of the children gasped, but the adults clapped and cheered, some lifting their fingers to their lips to whistle appreciatively at the dramatic flair.

And then the rider spoke, and as it did so, a single light shone from a nearby building, shedding a pool of eerie green light upon horse and rider. It was Regina, her face pale and ghostly in the light, casting eldritch shadows across her face and throat so that her cheekbones seemed more prominent, sharp enough to cut glass. Gaze glittering darkly, her eyes thickly painted, she smiled, a red, hypnotic smile, and her low voice carried clearly across the grounds, "May the All Hallow's Eve festivities officially commence."

Another round of applause sounded from the crowd. The lights flooded back into existence and people turned back to their activities with increased avidity, conversations boisterous.

"What did I tell you?" Ruby grinned, "Attention-whore."

But Emma did not hear her. She was too preoccupied, her eyes locked onto Regina, who was now slipping down from her mount in a smooth, practiced movement. Regina wore a revealing dress, rich and dark and svelte, clinging to her body like a second skin. She tossed the reins of her horse to Sidney, waiting nearby, before gliding off, motioning towards the musicians, urging them to continue playing. Emma had never seen her showing so much skin before, and it made her breath catch in her throat.

"Hello? Earth to Emma!"

"Huh?" Emma wrenched her attention away from the Mayor and looked down to see Henry tugging at the edge of her tabard.

"I asked if you wanted to play a few of the games with me?" he asked hopefully, "And then maybe we can get a hot-dog or something to eat?"

Still a bit disoriented, Emma cleared her throat, "Yeah, that sounds great. Let's go, kid."

As Henry grabbed her hand and started pulling her towards the nearest stall, her gaze flicked back to Regina, watching, marking her every move.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

**Stay tuned for part 2 of Halloween Night in Storybrooke!**

**-Kore**


	7. Chapter 7

**Oooooh! It seems that my comments in the last chapter ruffled a few feathers! Good! I regret nothing. Hell, I'll be the first to say I'm an intellectual snob. **

** However, I don't expect everyone to have intimate knowledge of Classics. That's why I add footnotes. In the hopes that someone will read them and go, "Huh! That's interesting! I learned something new!" That being said, there are certain things I truly hope most people's educational background has covered. Homer being the big one. You don't have to be able to quote **_**The Iliad**_** or **_**The Odyssey**_**. Just know that there was some guy named Homer who lived a long ass time ago and recited poetry and who was kind of important. Just a little. Honestly, the best situation that could come of my allusions and silly notes is someone goes, "You know! I've never read Homer! I think I'll go on project Gutenberg and read some!" Even if this ends in said person tossing Homer aside after 2 pages, I'll still feel ineffably happy.**

** In fact, if you haven't read Homer and you go read him because of this, and then you come back and tell me, then I will write a one-shot of your choice. Any situation. Any characters. You name it. I'll write it. And then I'll dedicate it to you. Seriously. That would make my day. **

** And in response to an anonymous reviewer, who pointed out a supposed misuse of the word "contemptuous" a few chapters back, I'm going to call artistic license; I made use of hypallage. It's supposed to be that way. Regina is the contemptuous one, but the adjective was switched to the object, Emma, for effect. And that's not a bullshit answer. I actually thought it through while writing. This isn't to say that I don't make mistakes. Heaven knows, I'm only human. I just enjoy toying with rhetorical devices upon occasion. **

** In response to **_**another**_** anonymous reviewer (Christ, there are a lot of you): if I ever **_**did**_** decide to become a fry-cook, then you can bet I'd be a happily educated, fuckawesome fry-cook with a penchant for serving my burgers with a heaping side of Vergil. At least I know I have no regrets about not pursuing my passions in life. **

** Now let's get on with the fun, shall we?**

** Enjoy!**

** Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

Emma Swan was by no means a master at darts. Still, she prided herself on being able to win a game here or there – her ego demanded nothing less of her. Tonight, though, she couldn't seem to hit any of her targets.

"You're kind of terrible at this," Henry said bluntly, watching as Emma tried and missed again.

Growling under her breath, Emma shifted her general's cloak on her shoulder. She blamed it for her awful aim, unwilling to admit what it was that really distracted her. She and Henry had been making the rounds, wandering up to booths, playing games, eating obscene amounts of black and orange candy-floss, and consuming mug after mug of pumpkin-spice hot cocoa. At one booth equipped with water-guns, Emma, growing especially mischievous, rounded upon Henry and sprayed his front with water, resulting in a shrieking water fight that had to be broken up by Archie, who ran the booth in question. As a result, Henry's cosmetics had started to run, but the beaming smile on his face afterwards had been worth it.

Throughout the entire evening, though, a certain someone had lingered in the background, occupying Emma's thoughts.

Only an hour and a half had passed since Regina's grand entrance, yet still Emma's eyes would occasionally stray, searching for her in the crowd. She drifted among the milling masses, like so many bees thronging upon the small village green, and no matter where she went she stood out like a dark candle. Emma could always find her in a moment's notice; her gaze was drawn to that overtly sensual swagger, those movements sinuous and deadly as a serpent's. Emma found herself captivated by the smallest of things: the sculpted twirl of those fingers, the poised wrist, the gliding step, the delicate lock of hair that curled against a smooth neck, those eyes holding the light, preserving it like an insect in amber, and glinting blackly against pale, unblemished skin.

Emma missed again. The dart shot awry of the caricature Frankenstein's monster by a good hand-breadth.

"Ugh!" the irritated noise rumbled in Emma's chest, and she threw her hands up into the air in self-disgust, "What is _wrong_ with me tonight?!"

But Henry just smiled up at her, "Come on," he waved her along, trotting ahead, "Let's get some more cocoa!"

"Twist my arm, why don't you?" she grinned, following, "Just don't blame me when you can't get to sleep tonight because of a sugar-rush."

He was already ordering them their hot chocolates when Emma pulled up beside him, "Yeah, but that's what the sugar-_crash_ is for."

"You're too smart for your own good," Emma ruffled his head affectionately, pulling a few bills from her pocket to pay for their beverages.

Hands fastened around the steaming mugs, they wandered closer to the bonfire, seeking its warmth. Sparks rose into the sky, swirling in scintillating whorls with the smoke. Henry's face turned up to track their progress to the stars, while Emma's eyes once again sought out the Mayor. People danced to the lively tune of the band, their quick steps exuberant, their smiles broad. It was without a doubt the happiest Emma had ever seen the townspeople of Storybrooke. For a fleeting moment of panic, she could not find Regina. Frowning, she craned her neck, rocking back on her toes, sweeping the crowd.

And then she found her. She was standing opposite them across the fire, and her image shimmered in the heat as though she were a mirage, some trance-induced siren among the desert waves. Dark shapes passed between them, the bodies of the citizens dancing, fading into the background as shadows twisting to the frantic beat of a distant drum, the uneven bruit of her own heart, roaring in her ears. Mouth suddenly dry, Emma raised the hot chocolate and took a gulp, the heat settling in her stomach like a heady draught of votive wine. Regina's eyes met hers across the fire and Emma tensed. A slow smirk spread across Regina's features. She lifted a hand to her face and tapped her full, painted lips. Blinking furiously, it took Emma a good minute to realise that Regina was referring not to her own mouth, but to Emma's. Face burning, Emma scrubbed at the whipped cream stuck to her upper lip and the tip of her nose with the back of her gloved hand. Across the way, Regina's smirk widened and her shoulders shook with low chuckles. When Emma looked up again, she saw Regina moving away, heading towards the maze.

Draining her mug, Emma turned to Henry, "Hey, kid. Want to go through the maze?"

"Sure!" He agreed, hurriedly finishing off his own cocoa.

Together they delivered their mugs back to the hot chocolate booth and made their way through the crowd in the direction of the maze. Once at its entrance, David greeted them with a hearty smile, handing each of them a small plastic flashlight and ushering them into the dark maze, assuring, "If you get lost, just stay put. We have people patrolling in there, including myself, so we'll find you quickly."

Thanking him, they started off. Right in the beginning a fork dissected the path.

"Hey, Emma," Henry lit his flashlight beneath his chin, illuminating his face from below, "Wanna race?"

She grinned down at him, "You're on, kid."

At once, Henry darted off to the right, while Emma took the left. Immediately the walls of hay swallowed her, muffling external noises to a faint drone. Darkness clung to every surface and fabricated fog carpeted the earth. Emma proceeded with car, giving corners a wide berth, wielding her flashlight like a weapon, brandished before her. Skeletons dropped into the path as she walked by, accompanied by recorded screams from hidden speakers, and more than once she heard the prowling of wolves in the distance, their electronic jaws snapping and snarling at her heels, making her jump, startled. All the while, she thanked the powers that be that Regina had made this outfit out of wool, for it shielded her from the chill of the maze.

So far, she had not encountered another living person, but around the next corner she saw flashing lights and a shadow thrown against the opposite wall of hay, the distorted silhouette of a person. Crouching low and turning off her flashlight, she snuck up to the corner, pressing herself into the wall. Errant stalks of hay tickled her neck. A fiendish grin split her face. She was going to give Henry a fright, and she was greatly looking forward to it. Footsteps crunched along the path, creeping closer. When they grew close enough, almost around the corner, Emma leapt out with a triumphant shout, and captured him in a fierce hug, "Gotchya!"

Except, the figure was far taller than expected.

_"Miss Swan!"_

At the startled cry, Emma froze. Eyes wide as saucers, she saw who it was she had caught. Her arms were wrapped around Regina's narrow waist, and she couldn't tell who was more surprised: Regina or herself. Immobile, they stared at one another. Emma felt almost reluctant to pull away, to move in any way that might break the spell. She was looking up at Regina, nose hovering over the woman's clavicle, knees slightly bent from when she had been crouched. In the darkness Regina's eyes were pools of languid shadow, but instead of the usual cold disdain there dwelled an indescribable warmth. Emma's breath stuck in her throat as a gentle hand slowly reached up and delved into her wealth of curls that tumbled in a cascading array around her shoulders, fingers threading through flaxen strands. Emma found she leaned closer at the gesture in spite of herself, until she could feel Regina's short breaths sweeping across her brow. The atmosphere grew thick, fluid, as though they were drowning in a viscous haze. If Emma didn't know better, she'd have thought someone had slipped something into her hot chocolate.

Something flickered in Regina's gaze, and Emma's arms tightened around her of their own volition. Regina's body was all curves and velvet heat. Regina's fingers suddenly clenched, her face darkening, "I never wanted this," she hissed venomously, "It wasn't supposed to be you."

Brow furrowing in confusion and worry, Emma stammered out, "Wh-What -?"

Her words were cut off by Regina's hands, one clutching the back of her head, the other fastening at her hip, pressing their bodies together. Regina seemed to loom above her, bringing their faces so close together their noses brushed. Emma was stunned into silence, heart hammering in her chest. Regina's eyes were hooded, misty, as she gazed down, while internally a battle raged. She wavered.

But Emma saw it. The naked want. It made a shiver pass through her own limbs like an electric current. There was no unseeing it now, no pretending that this moment had never happened, that the moments before – in Regina's den of artful escapism and in Regina's office – had never occurred. The aching anxiety in her gut only intensified when Emma leaned forward, brushing their lips together, tentative. A visible shudder ran its course through Regina's mortal frame at the soft contact. Sensing no resistance, Emma increased the pressure, becoming more insistent. With a small sound in the back of her throat, Regina's mouth softened beneath hers, obsidian eyes sliding shut. One of the Emma's hands rose to the expanse of skin revealed by the back of her dress, which plunged daringly below her shoulder blades. Even through the cuirass, Emma could feel the muscles of Regina's stomach tighten, and in response her mouth opened, moving boldly against Regina's.

"Is everything alright over there?"

The approaching voice around the corner made the two spring apart as though scalded. David appeared, looking concerned. He aimed a flashlight in their direction.

Emma was still caught off guard, but Regina, it seemed, was not so affected, "We're fine," her face was cool, composed, her voice giving no indication of their previous activity, "Miss Swan just surprised me is all."

David nodded, "Just checking. Don't want any scared kids lost alone in here."

Regina hardly heard him, though, for she was already striding by him, skirts swishing along the ground, so that swells of fog curled in her wake, leaving Emma staring breathlessly after her.

* * *

** And now it's time for random fun anecdote that has absolutely nothing to do with this story! **

**This one time at band camp…**

** No, no. But seriously now. So, this one time I was in the airport, waiting at the gate for my flight to Italy. Bored, I decided it would be fun to try something called the **_**Sortes Vergilianae**_** for the first time. The **_**Sortes Vergilianae**_**, or "Vergilian Lots," was the practice of using Vergil to tell the future. (People also thought that Vergil's poetry was so perfect, it could bring back the dead. No joke. I found a book in the library while doing my undergraduate thesis a while back, called "Vergil: the Necromancer." It was a hefty black tome, and the first time I laid eyes on it, I was afraid I'd stumbled across some sort of Necronomicon). Ahem. Anyway! So, in order to perform the **_**Sortes Vergilianae**_**, you get a book of Vergil, close your eyes, open to a random page, and pick a random line with your finger. Then you read the line and it foretells the future. So I did this, thinking it was all just a lark, but when I read the line I had randomly picked, it said, "You will have safe travels to Italy."**

** Let's just say, I had safe travels to Italy. And I've never again dared to perform the **_**Sortes Vergilianae**_**.**

** I'm just glad it didn't read, "You will be disemboweled in Italy." Because then I'd be fucked.**


	8. Chapter 8

**So, I'm supposed to be translating a good 300 lines of Vergil's **_**Georgics**_** for my seminar on Didactic Poetry tomorrow, but my rebellious bitch of a brain decided halfway through that it would be fun to fixate upon Swan Queen instead. Ergo here I am. Updating earlier than intended. **

** Stoopid brain…**

** Oh! And I was reminded by a lovely reviewer that there are, in fact, graphic novel and movie versions of **_**The Iliad**_** and **_**The Odyssey**_**. I remember reading the graphic novel version of **_**The Iliad**_** a while back, and, if memory serves me correctly, it was actually pretty good. The most recent movie in my memory was **_**Troy**_**. Which was kind of terrible, not going to lie. But mainly because they didn't have the gods. The gods are the best part! And the whole Briseis love affair thing made me snort with laughter – derisive laughter, mind you. And when I saw Aeneas at the end, I was all, "THAT'S AENEAS?!" followed swiftly by my usual Aeneas tired, which generally involves something along the lines of, "FUCK YOU, AENEAS. MY BELOVED DIDO DESERVES BETTER. RAAAWR."**

** Ahem. Where was I?**

** Ah, yes! On another note, I'm going to stop putting in numbers in the text to indicate footnotes, so that the story flows more smoothly – yet another recommendation from a kind reviewer. There will still be footnotes on the bottom of the page, of course. Never fear. And when I don't have footnotes, I'll probably put in silly anecdotes like I did last time. BECAUSE OF REASONS.**

** Enjoy!**

** Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

There was no other way to describe it.

Regina fled.

It took all of her control to keep her stride even, but despite her best efforts, her steps were too quick. Her heart hammered at her chest, clawing its way up her throat. She swallowed in an attempt to wash it down, force it back under control. Regardless, she felt sick, nausea stirring her stomach like a cauldron brewed by witches at crossroads, summoning the chthonic Hecate. The noxious gas was bubbling over, spilling throughout her limbs, making the very surface of her skin boil.

Silently she cursed herself, cursed her foolishness, her weak and temperamental heart, a hart already crippled with arrows from an unwary hunter, staggering through the woods, a wooded labyrinth. Her hands clenched into fists when she felt the ache in her chest intensify. Grinding her teeth, she strove to drive the unpleasant sensations away, only to have it deepen. Blindly she hastened through the maze, her pace increasing when she heard her name being called behind her.

"Regina! Regina, wait!"

Only when she felt a hand on her arm did she wheel around to bear down upon the unfortunate Miss Swan, "What do you want?"

She was met by a confused mesh of emotions on Emma's face: determination, puzzlement, fear, and even an inkling of desire, "Good question. I was just about to ask you the same thing."

Regina's eyes flashed dangerously and she snarled, "What I want is to get out of this hellish maze, which you are currently deterring me from doing."

"Look," Emma began, not removing her hand from Regina's arm, "Can we just talk about this for a second? As adults?"

Regina sneered and delivered a scathing retort, "Somehow I doubt you have the level of maturity to do so."  
Emma rolled her eyes, "Right. Because your maturity is really shining through right now. Truly a beacon to guide other lesser beings to harbours of adulthood." Her tone held a dryness she could not restrain, and after the words tumbled from her mouth she winced.

Drawing herself up, Regina glowered imperiously, "Release me at once, Miss Swan," she demanded in a hiss.

But Emma's grip tightened and she stepped closer, "No. Because if I do so, you'll just run away again."

"I did _not_ run away!" Regina insisted hotly between clenched teeth, channeling her simmering fear into anger and lashing out in whatever way possible.

Emma's voice lowered, almost conspiratorially, leaning in as though they were plotting a political coup upon the senate steps, "Lie to yourself all you like, Regina. I know what I saw. Now are we going to talk about this like reasonable adults? Or not?"

The nearness of Emma Swan was like an intoxicating drug, or perhaps an airborne pathogen infecting her lungs, making it difficult to breathe properly. She stood, silent, unable to speak, her voice caught somewhere along the way, clinging to the roof of her mouth. Finally, she nodded, but her body remained tense, held in suspense, like a doe ready to leap away at the slightest sound, the smallest indication of danger. She looked anywhere but at Miss Swan, eyes darting all about.

"Ok. Good," Emma said calmly, loosening her hold slightly, reluctant to fully let go, "So. We kissed."

Regina barked out an abrupt laugh, an uneasy smile on her face, "Yes, Miss Swan. I think that much is clear." Still, she nervously flicked her hair from her face with her free hand.

Were those proverbial butterflies in her stomach? Ugh. How disgustingly juvenile.

Emma's smile in returned looked just as shaken, "And…we both liked it."

A hint of a question lingered there, lilting the last intonation ever so slightly.

Regina did not give an immediate answer, shifting instead on her feet, resisting the urge to fiddle with a lock of her hair. Eventually, though, she gave a brisk nod.

"Ok. Progress," Emma's gloved thumb began slowly sliding across Regina's forearm, back and forth, back and forth, a small absentminded gesture. The gentle caress Regina could feel through the velvet cloth of her gown, which sent a warm shiver spiking from wrist to shoulder, "Now the real question is: do we want to pursue any further…uh…_relations_?"

Something in Regina's abdomen swooped at the thought, dipping low and darting like a nightingale through thorny branches. She sucked in a lungful of air and held it, hoping to stifle the feeling. Everything in her mind urged to reject Miss Swan's rather bumbling proposal, but she hesitated.

Emma seemed to take her silence in a different direction, however, "If you want, we don't have to. You just have to say the word, and we can go about our lives as usual. I'll never broach the subject again."

"_No_."

Regina was thunderstruck to hear own voice.

"I…" she closed her eyes briefly, eyebrows angling downward, feeling a stab of irritation streaking through the fear and want and anxiety all folded together in her gut, "That's…not what I want."

Glass-green eyes gazed up at her, and she could not resist their pull, meeting them at last to be drowned into their crystalline tides. That golden hair looked windswept, framing her face, honest and open. Emma worried her lower lip between her teeth, and Regina found her gaze immediately drawn to the movement until she found herself staring.

"A rain check, then?" Emma asked, still somewhat uncertain, jerking Regina from her reverie.

Regina shook herself mentally, taking a deep breath to steady herself, "Yes."

"Ok. Alright. Good," Emma was nodding to herself, "We can do this. Right? Right."

"But we're not dating," Regina asserted, pointing a threatening finger.

Emma heartily agreed, "Definitely not dating."

Regina nodded sharply, "Good. I'm glad there's consensus."

For a few long heartbeats, they merely stood there. An awkward silence descended between them. It did not occur very often that Regina found herself at a loss for words, but then again she wasn't used to this. She and Emma bantered. They repelled one another as surely as water and oil. They fought. They bickered. They sought chinks in one another's armour. They certainly didn't do _this_. Whatever 'this' was.

Finally, Emma spoke, "We should…Get out of here and find Henry…"

Grateful for something to do other than stewing in their own befuddled thoughts, Regina found herself leaping at the suggestion, "Right. Yes."

At last, Emma let go, holding out her hand, gesturing for Regina to walk before her. Together, they traversed the maze in utter silence.

* * *

**Awkward initial stages of love affairs are so awkward. Christ, don't I know it o.O**

**1) "witches at crossroads, summoning the chthonic Hecate" : This is actually a Shakespeare reference. _Macbeth_, to be precise. Though Shakespeare was, of course, referring to classical mythology. "Chthonic" just means "of or pertaining to the underworld." Since, you know, Hecate is a goddess from the underworld. I would go on about how Hecate is part of this weird triad of goddesses related to crossroads and magic and blah blah. But I shall refrain from going into too much detail. If you want to do further reading on mythology, I recommend the site theoi . com. If, however, you want a more substantial source, then I highly recommend Morford and Lenardon's book on mythology. I think they're on the 9th edition now…**

**2) "a hart already…a wooded labyrinth" : Let it be known. I love puns. LOVE them. And the whole play on heart/hart is one of my favourites to use in poetry and prose. A "hart" is a deer. Shakespeare also liked this little pun too, if memory serves me correctly. But this whole line is an allusion to Vergil's _Aeneid,_ 4.68-74. Dido, Queen of Carthage, is likened to a deer, which has been shot by an unwary shepherd, and which staggers, wounded, through the forest, the arrow sticking out from its side. In other words, Regina here is similarly affected, wounded with love from the unwary Emma Swan.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hello, everyone!**

** It seems that nobody has taken me up on my offer for a one-shot. So! I have decided that, instead of letting such an offer go to waste, I shall hold a small contest. Well, it's more of a quiz, really. You answer a series of questions (either in review form or a PM, whichever you prefer), and if you get them right, then I'll write a one-shot of your choice. The questions are going to be classically themed, of course. **

** This is going to be on a first come first serve basis. So, whoever answers all the questions first and correctly will receive the prize. **

** And here they are:**

** 1) Who was the 4****th**** emperor of Rome? **

** 2) Who held the most consulships during the Roman Republic? And how many consulships did he hold?**

** 3) Who did Plato refer to as "the tenth Muse"?**

** 4) Where was the mythological figure, Medea, from? **

** 5) What was a common epithet for Hera? (bonus points if you can give me more than one epithet)**

** And that's it! **_**Bona fortuna**_**, my friends!**

** Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

Taking a deep breath and shifting the bulk in her arms, burdened down by the many parts of the costume, Emma quickly knocked on the Mayor's front door before she could convince herself out of this whole thing. Two days had passed since the Halloween festivities, and during that entire time Emma had not once seen Regina. Understandably, the Mayor had been busy the first day after, but after the second day, Emma began to grow anxious. She mentally cursed herself for getting into such a state over one kiss, but in her defense it had been a remarkable kiss, fleeting though it had been. Not wanting to text or call Regina for fear of appearing cliché, Emma had decided to make their next meeting on their own terms: a casual visit to return the costume.

Rocking on the balls of her feet, she waited. Footsteps pattered on the other side of the door and it opened, only to reveal Henry. He cocked his head up at her and smiled, "Hey, Emma!"

"Hey, kid," she greeted in return, flashing him a swift smile and gesturing with her head towards the inside of the manor, "Is your mom here?"

He shook his head, "Nope. She's working."

Frowning, Emma replied in confusion, "But I was just at her office and she wasn't there."

Henry seemed entirely uninterested in his mother's whereabouts, for he merely shrugged. Then his eyes lit up and he asked, enthusiastic, "Wanna come in and work on Operation Cobra?"

"Err…I don't think that's such a good idea," she replied uncertainly. Suddenly, she blinked, and it was as though a light went off in her brain. She knew exactly where Regina was, "You know what? I think I know where to find your mom. See you later?"

He looked somewhat crestfallen but smiled nonetheless at the promise of future meetings, "Sure thing. I should get back to my homework anyway." He waved before shutting the door once more.

Making sure that he wasn't spying on her from one of the windows, Emma made her way to the garage. Once inside, she stared down at the trap door, then back at the load in her arms, finally deciding to place some of it on the ground in order to wrench the door open. As soon as she did so, music drifted up through the air. Regina must have sound-proofed the walls and garage floor, so as to be able to work completely undisturbed. Gathering the various articles of her costume back into her arms, Emma descended. The music grew louder the lower she went, a soothing Baroque piece involving a harpsichord and violin. When she reached the last step, she looked around to find Regina sitting upon a footstool, her back facing the stairs. Slowly approaching, Regina's latest project was revealed. She was pumping a potter's wheel with her foot, hands smoothing out a lump of wet clay upon the spinning surface. Her shirt had been rolled up past her elbows, and her hands and wrists were smeared with ochre clay, the colour of unfired terracotta. Her pants, too, bore blotches of clay. She hadn't yet noticed Emma's presence.

"Hey," Emma said over the music.

With a yelp, Regina started. She looked around wildly, leg ceasing its constant movement. When she saw who it was that stood behind her, she visibly relaxed, "You should learn to knock, Miss Swan."

"Yes, because knocking would have been so useful with all this noise," Emma retorted sarcastically, before adding, "Where do you want this?" She held out the costume.

Nodding in the direction of the sewing corner, Regina turned back to her pottery, slowly starting up the wheel once more; her hands had never actually left the clay, "Just place it all on the table over there. I'll sort it out later."

Emma did as requested, shaking out her tired arms afterwards – it was a heavy costume; she was just glad it hadn't involved chain mail, though she wouldn't put it past Regina to order chainmail for her period accurate attire. She began to edge back in the Mayor's direction, hands shoved into her back pockets. Craning her neck, she looked over Regina's shoulder, "Whatchya makin'?"

Sparing a brief glance upwards, Regina replied, "I don't know yet."

Emma arched a questioning brow, "How do you start without knowing the outcome?"

Regina just shrugged, the action looking surprisingly like Henry's, if a bit stiffer, "I just sit and let my mind wander. It's…soothing."

Emma hummed appreciatively, watching the wheel spin, Regina's mud-slick fingers slowly sculpting the lump into a vague shape.

"Would you like to try?" Regina offered without preamble.

A huff of laughter escaped Emma, "You hoping to have a _Ghost_ moment?"

At this, though, Regina scowled quizzically. She looked up at Emma, who now stood close beside her, "A what moment?"

"You really need to watch more movies."

"Clearly," Regina answered dryly.

"How about," Emma bargained, "you watch a movie with me later, and I'll try out the pottery thing?"

Regina mulled over the proposition for a moment before deciding, "Deal," she said. Her foot lifted from the pedal, the wheel slowed, and she scooted back on her footstool, gesturing for Emma to sit.

"You expect me to sit _there?_" Emma pointed, incredulous.

Regina just quirked a challenging brow, a small smirk tugging at her lips.

"Oh, hell," Emma groaned, tugging off her jacket and tossing it aside, "We really are going to have a _Ghost_ moment, aren't we?" Sighing, she resigned herself to the inevitable, "Well, at least it's a classic. Cheesy as hell, but a classic."

"Stop talking, Miss Swan, and sit down," the smirk had burgeoned into a fully fledged mischievous smile now.

"Fine. But I swear to god, if _Unchained Melody _by The Righteous Brothers starts playing, I'm out. That's too much, even for me."

Hesitating, trying to swallow the ridiculous fluttering in her stomach, she stepped between Regina's legs and situated herself on the edge of the footstool.

"First thing's first," Regina nudged Emma towards a pail of murky water on the floor nearby, "You need to wet your hands."

Suddenly feeling immensely awkward at the wording and their position, Emma coughed, but dipped her hands in the water nonetheless. Her entire body went rigid when Regina leaned in and rested her chin on Emma's shoulder, so that her warm breath tickled Emma's ear. Those long legs shifted as well to reach the pump and start up the wheel again.

Regina's low voice made Emma shiver, "I thought I was supposed to be the tense one, Miss Swan."

But Emma could feel through her own nerves some of Regina's own. The Mayor's hands shook slightly when she took Emma's and guided them towards the clay. Her chest trembled when she breathed, pressed all along Emma's back. When Regina swallowed to temper the anxiety in her stomach, Emma could feel the movement resonate against her shoulder blade. And there remained the smallest hesitation to her words, her actions, as though she were afraid to touch Emma, handling her with a delicacy as though she were made of thin glass and would shatter at any moment, cutting into her skin, marking her with lacerations in long red lines.

"The clay has already been centered, so now we just need to make an indentation."

Regina guided Emma's thumbs to the center of the mound and pressed them slowly into it, easing into the clay. One of Regina's hands darted out to the side, scooping up a bit of water in her palm and bringing it back to the wheel, softening the earthen material further.

"And now," Regina murmured, taking Emma's right band by the wrist and gently moving it aside, "put your hand there on the base, just to give it support, while I open up the bowl."

"Oh, so we're making a bowl, are we?"

"I don't know. Do you want to make a bowl?"

"I guess a bowl is alright."

Regina slipped her fingers into the indent they had made, grasping the lip and squeezing. As she did so, she slowly lifted her hand, dragging the pads of her fingers up the sides, so that the clay lifted into a broad column. Her every movement made Emma all the more aware of just how close they were, and she found it was all she could concentrate on.

"Neat," Emma breathed.

Regina just made a low humming noise that travelled all through Emma's back. Turning her head, she looked over her shoulder to see that Regina was watching her closely, those eyes black and unreadable.

It had returned, that thickness in the air. Emma suddenly felt too warm. The wheel's spin began to drift to a slow crawl, but neither of them paid it any attention. Regina's eyes flickered down. Emma knew exactly where she was looking, but neither of them moved, both too hesitant. It wasn't until Regina's lips parted slightly that Emma found herself moving forward without thinking. For the second time their mouths met, and just like before Regina seemed frozen in place, almost as if shocked. It took a moment for her to do anything more than just sit there, immobile. When she did react, though, the effect was immediate.

Regina's body was suddenly pushing up against her, a long length of lithe heat. Gone were the tremulous brushes of skin, the timid touches. Emma felt insistent hands grasp at her hips, so that her body was angled exactly the way Regina wanted, turned perpendicular to form a right angle from Emma's hip to Regina's stomach. A burning brand of exigency fuelled Regina's actions, from the way her hands clutched at Emma, to the way their mouths moved together, swiping her tongue along Emma's lower lip before taking it between her teeth. Now Emma was the one reacting, body responding without needing words, mind reeling in the sweltering haze.

"The bowl's been ruined," Emma gasped, when they parted for a moment.

"What bowl?" Regina asked breathlessly.

At this, Emma chuckled, leaning in again to deliver a swift peck to Regina's nose, "No bowl. Never mind."

Regina blinked at her, eyes cloudy and bewildered. The comment about the bowl was soon forgotten, though, when Emma pressed their lips together once more, parting Regina's mouth with her tongue, slanting her head. Her hands crept up Regina's back, leaving a smear of wet earth on their path. Without thinking, she slipped on hand up to bury in the dark waves of Regina's hair.

At this, Regina jerked back, "Not my _hair_, Miss Swan!"

"Sorry!" Emma held up her hands as if in surrender, looking somewhat chagrined.

Tossing her head, unable to touch her own hair, Regina stood, storming over to a bench where a towel lay. With it, she wiped her hands clean and began fretting over her hair.

Still seated, Emma said, "Well if it's any consolation, you messed up my clothes," she gestured to the clay handprints on her shirt and the hem of her pants.

"Your clothes were already a disaster to begin with," Regina snapped back, picking strands of clay from her hair.

But Emma was not fazed by the sharp retort. Instead, she allowed a sultry smile to curl her mouth and her eyes dragged along Regina's body, "Then perhaps you should just do me a favour and get rid of them."

Going stock-still, Regina spluttered wordlessly, cheeks tinged a lovely shade of pink. Eventually, she threw down the towel and growled from between her teeth, "I am going to take a shower to rectify this mess," she pointed to her hair, "And _you_," she fixed Emma with that piercing stare, "are not staying here while I'm gone."

Grinning, the sheriff rose to her feet and sauntered over to the stairs, "You still owe me a movie," Emma reminded her.

Regina scowled but nevertheless replied, "Tomorrow night. 9 o'clock. Bring a DVD."

* * *

**CONFESSION: I've never actually worked with a potter's wheel before. So….there are probably a few mistakes in all that drabble between the fluff. SO MUCH FLUFF. But I've always wanted to use a potter's wheel…? Does that count? **

** And, yes. I like the movie **_**Ghost**_**. Shut up. I love cheesy 90s romance films. I also love camp. The more camp, the better. It's one of the reasons why Xena ranks highly among my list of "Favourite TV Shows of All Time." **


	10. Chapter 10

**Hello again!**

** Well, we have a winner, folks! Let's give a big round of applause to the one and only AMC6686, who correctly answered all the questions of my quiz with a rapidity I myself envy. As promised, I'll be writing a one shot for her/him. It? I'm going with "it." Gender neutrality for the win. **

** And now onto the longest chapter of this fic thus far. **

** Enjoy!**

** Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

"Whatchya lookin' for?"

Emma glanced up to see Mary Margaret peering over a cup of tea at her, half-seated on the arm of the couch, on leg planted firmly on the ground, the other folded beneath her. Emma herself was squatting on the floor, rummaging through the basket in which Mary Margaret kept her movies.

"My sanity," she mumbled in reply, turning back to the basket of DVDs.

"Oh, hon. I'm afraid that's long gone."

At that, Emma shot a glare over her shoulder, but Mary Margaret simply sipped her tea, composed as a queen, though a small grin played about her features, "Working on your standup act?" Emma asked.

"The world of comedy is fraught with competition," Mary Margaret said, words facetious, though she delivered them with a dead-pan grace, "I have to keep on top of my game."

Emma snorted out a laugh, "Sounds very dog-eat-dog. You sure you're in the right business?"

"What can I say?" Mary Margaret heaved a dramatic sigh and brushed back her bangs with her free hand, "Comedy is my calling."

Emma couldn't keep the laughter at bay then. Shaking her head, she smiled, tucking her hair behind one ear as she continued digging.

Mary Margaret shared Emma's smile and padded closer, peering at the movies over Emma's shoulder, "But in all seriousness, what movie are you looking for?"

"I honestly have no idea," Emma answered, rocking back to flop onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling, arms sprawled at her side, "Nothing seems to look good. Every time I make a decision, I doubt that it's a good choice, then toss it aside."

Cocking her head, Mary Margaret asked, "Well, what's the occasion?"

At this, Emma faltered. Her mind raced; she hadn't thought of a suitable little tale to spin. It wasn't as if she could just say, _Regina and I are going to have a not-date movie-night._ That just sounded ridiculous, "Umm…" she fumbled around for a white lie, "Regina agreed to let me watch a movie with Henry, provided that she chaperone."

Mary Margaret's brow furrowed quizzically, "Huh. On a school night?"

"I know," Emma added, hurried, "I was surprised too. But, hey! I'll take any time I can."

"Hmm…" Mary Margaret hummed thoughtfully. She tapped the lip of her mug against her chin, steam from her tea drifting before her face and dissolving into the air like white stalks of ash upon a breeze, "So, you need a family oriented movie you all can enjoy."

Emma grimaced, but she was stuck with the impromptu lie she had constructed, "Yeah. Something like that."

Suddenly, Mary Margaret's face lit up. Setting her tea on the nearby white wicker coffee table, she knelt down to rifle through her collection of videos, "Aha!" she cried, triumphant, holding a red DVD case aloft, "This is perfect."

Sitting up, Emma took the proffered movie. She turned the case over to read the front, "_The Philadelphia Story._ Never heard of it."

Mary Margaret stood, brushed off her hands, and gathered up her mug of tea once more, looking supremely pleased with her choice, "Good. Hopefully you all can enjoy it, then."

For a moment Emma considered rejecting her friend's choice. But then she shrugged the doubt off and offered up a grateful smile, "Thanks, MM. What would I do without you?"

"Starve, for one."

Emma groaned, "You're never going to let me live that mishap down, are you?"

"You may refer to it as a 'mishap,' but I call it the Great Fire of 2011."

"It was one time!"

"One time is all it takes to reduce my poor home to cinders and raze it to the ground."

"You talk about it like I'm an invading band of Vandals," Emma grumbled.

Mary Margaret studied her seriously, "Hmm…No. You've got a more Viking look about you."

"Oy vey…"

* * *

When an expected knock pounded on the front door, Regina jumped. Expected though it may have been, she still started, and then silently berated herself for doing so. The sudden movement had caused her hand to slip, sending the knife skittering off track to nick her finger. With a hiss, she inspected the damage. A small cut welled up with blood midway along the forefinger of her left hand, and even though she knew she shouldn't, she automatically captured the blood with her mouth. Setting the knife down, she strode to the front door to admit the one and only Miss Swan.

"Hey!" Emma greeted before her cheery demeanor swiftly faded upon seeing Regina standing there, finger in mouth, looking less than pleased, "What happened to you?"

Regina pulled her hand away to answer, "Nothing serious. My hand slipped is all," and, standing aside, she gestured for Emma to enter.

While the sheriff shrugged out of her coat, Regina returned back into the kitchen without another word. The bleeding had slowed; the cut was not deep. Nevertheless, she reached beneath the sink for the small first-aid kit she kept there, and fished for a band-aid. All the while, the concentrated on regulating her breathing, slowing her heartbeat.

This was frankly ridiculous. She did not know what on earth was wrong with her. This sort of bashful virgin behaviour was beneath her. Time and time again over the last few days she had tried convincing herself that Emma Swan meant nothing to her, that Emma Swan would just be another one of her flings, that she would indulge in this mindless sensual pleasure purely for the physical gratification and for the kind of dominance over the unruly Miss Swan that only sex could offer. Lord knows she had used sex as a power-play plenty of times before, and this time should have been no different.

Then why were her nerves so frayed?

She felt as though she were slowly unraveling at the ends, like an oiled rope twisting out of shape.

Muttering vehement profanities under her breath, she wrapped the adhesive arms of a band-aid around her finger just as Emma Swan entered the kitchen.

"I presume you've eaten dinner, but I thought a little platter was in order. If for nothing else than to go with the wine," Regina waved vaguely at the island while snapping the first-aid kit shut and returning it to its proper place beneath the sink.

Emma nodded appreciatively, hands slipping into the back pockets of her jeans. Her eyes swept the island, bearing a bottle of wine – opened earlier to allow it to breathe – two glasses, and a platter with an assortment of cheese and fruit, "Sounds good. Do you need me to do anything?"

Regina brushed her hands on her white apron before stepping forward to the island. She picked the knife back up, wiped the small smear of blood from its edge, then gestured with it to the wine bottle, "Pour us some wine, why don't you?"

"Sure thing."

The distinct burble of poured wine trickled through the air as Regina continued cutting thin slices of cheese and arranging them neatly in a wide spiral pattern upon the platter. Glass scraped lightly across the marble counter as Emma slid a glass towards Regina, "I hope you don't mind that I put the DVD in the living room."

"That's fine," Regina put the last finishing touches on the platter, then tightly bagged the cheese, putting it back in the refrigerator. Placing the knife and cutting board in the nearby sink, she gathered up the platter and her glass, motioning for Emma to follow. Pleased to see that Emma grabbed the bottle, she led her into the living room, asking, "What movie will we be watching tonight? That _Ghost_ film you spoke of?"

Behind her, Emma chuckled, "No, no. I looked for that actually, but couldn't find it."

"What a shame," Regina replied dryly. She placed the platter on the glass and mahogany coffee table and, smoothing the beige skirt of her dress, sat upon the cream-coloured couch, wine carefully poised so as not to spill, "Then what did you bring, pray tell?"

"Actually," Emma admitted, putting down the bottle and her own glass, "I haven't seen this movie. Mary Margaret suggested it."

At this, Regina's expression grew distant and stony, "You told Miss Blanchard about us?"

Emma heard the cold note in Regina's voice, "No! I said you agreed to let me watch a movie with Henry, so long as you were there too."

Regina said nothing to this. Instead she watched Emma over the rim of her Waterford glass, slowly swirling the red wine in the wide bowl. Meanwhile, Emma snatched up the DVD case and moved towards the television, turning on the player and slipping the disc inside. Never taking her eyes off Emma, Regina lifted the glass to her nose and breathed in deeply. She was tipping the bowl forward for a small taste when Emma strode to the couch and flopped gracelessly down, right in the middle. Regina herself was perched on the edge like a cat: legs crossed primly, one elbow upon the arm of the couch. On the other hand, Emma's legs were extended before her, remote clutched in one hand, wine in the other.

"Do take care not to spill," Regina murmured as the menu flashed on screen.

"Well, shoot. You caught me," Emma drawled, "It was my intent all along to throw wine all over your couch and carpet."

Regina swatted at Emma's shoulder, resulting in a wide grin from the sheriff. Pointing the remote, Emma pressed play and an orchestral piece introduced the credits.

"Volume down," Regina chastened lightly, "Henry's upstairs."

"Whoops. Sorry."

Volume turned down to a more appropriate level, Regina blinked up at the black and white scene, "_The Philadelphia Story_?" she queried.

Emma hummed around a mouthful of wine, "Mmm. Have you heard of it?"

But Regina shook her head, "I told you: I don't really watch television."

"You never told me that," Emma corrected, leaning forward to pluck a few grapes from a purple bundle upon the platter.

The Mayor waved the comment away, "Well, I just did. Now, shh. It's starting."

As the movie proceeded, Regina tried to the best of her abilities to seem indifferent to Emma's presence, but Miss Swan had an infuriating way of making that all but impossible. She snacked on wedges of cheese and nibbled on slices of apple. Regina found herself watching Miss Swan almost as much as she watched the movie, gaze travelling all across her form. At one point Regina caught herself staring as Emma slowly peeled a grape with her teeth. Shaking her head slightly to clear her thoughts, she nervously flicked her hair from her face and sipped at the cabernet sauvignon, trying to focus on the movie instead. On the other hand, Miss Swan seemed completely engrossed by the flickering screen, turning her attention to Regina only to comment on some character's actions or another. Even so, Regina often found herself just as enthralled by the film, and it was half-way through that she realised she was actually enjoying the movie in spite of herself. At times, she could almost forget Emma was there, only for the woman to move and unwittingly draw Regina's attention.

Slipping her heels off, Regina curled her legs beneath her, settling more comfortably onto the couch. Not long after, Emma leaned forward to pick up the bottle of wine, "Do you want some more?" she asked after filling her own glass, to which Regina only replied by holding her near empty glass out. Emma scooted closer to pour the wine, but when she put the bottle back on the table, she did not move away again.

"That Dinah sure is a troublemaker," Emma noted fondly.

A small huff of laughter escaped Regina, "She's Henry in silver-screen form."

Emma grinned over at her, blue-green eyes sparkling with mischief, "Not to mention Miss Tracy Samantha Lord. Remind you of anyone? Hmm?"

"I don't know _what_ you're talking about," Regina gave a haughty toss of her head and sipped at her wine, which made Emma laugh.

Regina felt far too pleased that she had made Emma laugh. The realisation made her eyes narrow.

Not long later, Emma's hand dropped to Regina's calf, the action too overtly casual to not be a calculated gesture. Yet Regina did not pull away, dark eyes merely flicking over to a Miss Swan, who was very pointedly gazing at the screen. She swallowed, throat constricting, when a thumb began stroking a smooth path across her skin. The touch sent a jolt running up Regina's leg, and the muscles of her thigh twitched.

Upon seeing Emma's eyes flicker over to her, then returning quickly to the screen, Regina suppressed a small smile. Nonchalant, she stretched one leg over Emma's lap, keeping the other curled beneath her. Not to be thrown off, Emma took the movement in stride, leaning back into the cushions and slowly running her palm from Regina's knee to ankle and back again. The pads of her fingers swirling in off patterns proved to be rather distracting, for Regina found that the movie faded to background noise. Though she was jerked back to form when Emma's fingers strayed to the arch of her foot.

Emma quirked an eyebrow, looking far too impish, "Ticklish, are we?"

Regina glared daggers at her, "You do realise I can retract my leg at any time, Miss Swan."

In response, Emma lightly traced Regina ankles, smirking. Again, Regina jerked when Emma's hand wandered to the tender underside of her knee, "Miss Swan…" she growled warningly.

"I can't help if you're ticklish!" Emma insisted, still smiling.

Nevertheless Emma refrained from directly traversing those ticklish spots again. Instead, she started playing a game: seeing how close she could get to those zones of sensitive skin before Regina's flesh jumped beneath her hands. At ever wandering stroke, Regina's stomach tightened, as did her grip around the bowl of her wine glass, but she did not reprimand Emma again, though she knew she should have done so. In truth, some part of her enjoyed this game immensely, for it sent small thrills skittering through her. Though, it also made another part of herself – a less than passive side – prowl in her chest like a caged thing dragging its claws at the stony walls of its confinement.

On Emma's third glass of wine – Regina had been keeping track, and she herself had only had two – Miss Swan seemed to grow emboldened. She placed her glass upon the table and proceeded to toy with the hem of Regina's dress, fingers daringly slipping beneath it to brush against the soft skin of her lower thigh. Covering up a shiver at the touch, Regina drained the last of the wine, feeling it warm her throat deliciously. She studied Emma, from the tumble of golden curls around her shoulders to the slight purplish tinge to her lips due to the sea-dark wine. The movie was nearing its end, yet Regina no longer paid it any attention, wholly focused upon Emma's distracting hands. Her own held a slight tremble, which she tried to hide. She could not hide the darkening of her eyes, though, for when the credits began to roll and Emma looked over, Miss Swan froze.

Regina knew she should mask her desire. Normally she kept it under tight lock and key, but it seemed that she had lost her grip on the reigns, so to speak, leaving her emotions unbridled and blatantly, painfully obvious. Before she could muster up the strength to resist the urge that had been tempting her all night, she set her glass aside and moved swiftly forward, pushing Emma back upon the couch, hovering over her. Knees planted on either side of one of Emma's thighs, she leaned in close to whisper, "I think you've been teasing me long enough, Miss Swan."

The light from the screen ran out from Emma's eyes, captured alongside the look of surprise at Regina's sudden shift in their positions. Still, she did not resist. Quite to the contrary. Her chest rose and fell visibly now, driven from her previous calm teasing. Tangling her hands in Emma's hair, Regina moved in for a breathless, bruising kiss. She had remained passive long enough, and now she aimed for the familiar sensation of control, demanding entry into Emma's mouth, pressing their hips forcefully together, eliciting a startled gasp from the form beneath her. Emma's hands rose to grasp at Regina's waist, slowly sliding up and down her flanks, earning a series of shudders across Regina's back and stomach, tensing.

Something akin to a growl rumbled low in Regina's throat. She seized Emma's drifting hands and wrenched them away, shoving her arms upon the couch and holding them there, trapped. When Emma jerked spastically, Regina pinned one of her wrists beneath her sharp knee, using her free hand to yank Emma's chin up, exposing her pale throat. It could not have been a comfortable position, yet Emma mewled, an almost piteous sound, as Regina's mouth worked a steady trail down her neck. The small sound made Regina's hands clench. Gritting her teeth together, she struggled to resist the urge to bite down on the warm and milky expanse of skin, looking almost ghostly in the fading light of the television.

The credits faded. The screen went dark, plunging them into shadow. Licking her lips, Regina forced herself to sit up, to gain some distance between herself and Miss Swan.

This was not what she wanted.

Not like this.

This was no sexual conquest; Emma Swan was not a notch in her bed-post. Her brows drew together in a conflicted scowl. The fact remained that Regina Mills did not know how to engage in physical relations without them being anything more than a display of power and control. That she wanted this to be something more only increased her frustration. Aggravated at her own uncertainty, her insecurity, she rose to her feet and turned away, pushing stray strands of hair from her face and exhaling harshly.

"Thank you for the lovely evening, Miss Swan," she grated out, voice hoarse, "But I'm afraid we're done for tonight."

"Wait, what -?"

No sooner had Emma stood than Regina was pushing her towards the door, taking her coat from the closet and verily shoving it into her hands. Bewildered, Emma found herself moments later standing out in the cold, staring at the closed front door, jacket in her arms.

"But…" Emma's face fell, and she whispered down at her jacket, "What did I do…?"

* * *

**So, I love _The Philadelphia Story_. Anything with Katharine Hepburn is my cup of tea, really. Or Vivien Leigh. Hell, when I found out those two were friends, I shipped them to the moon. They are now the flagship of my fleet, right alongside Athena and Aphrodite.**

**Anywho, The Philadelphia Story is fantastic. I highly recommend it. It's been one of my favourite movies since I was...like...12. Actually, yeah. 12 is when I first discovered Katharine Hepburn. Vivien followed soon afterwards.**

**Oh! And kudos to anyone who can find the Faulkner "As I Lay Dying" reference :P**

**RANDOM FUN FACT: the word "muscle" is derived from the German word for "mouse," because muscles twitched beneath the skin. It's one of many many faded metaphors in the English language. Language itself, in some respects, is like cloth, threads wearing thin over time. In fact, all language is metaphor that slowly loses meaning. It's one of the main reasons why accurate translations are so difficult; you're not simply translating words, you're translating the metaphors inherent in all words, and oftentimes the poetic nature in one language can't quite be conveyed in the same sense in another language. If this is a subject you're at all interested in, I'm going to direct you towards Derrida. Err…just make sure you read his work in the English translation, as he wrote in French. Which can sometimes make it difficult to read, since it's in translation. Oh, the irony!**


	11. Chapter 11

**We're back! **

** The one-shot for AMC6686 has been uploaded as well. Look at me: updating fics when I should be doing actual work. Ahhh….life.**

** And to an anonymous reviewer: *LOUD BUZZER NOISE* Sorry. My little factoid about the word "muscle" at the end of the last chapter was not, in fact, wrong. If you look at the etymology of the word "muscle," it does indeed derive from German. But it also derives from Latin. I'm guessing it actually came to English from Latin **_**through German**_**. So…that means we're both right! Gold stars all around! And confetti! OOOOOH! CONFETTI!**

** Sorry. Wow. I'm a magpie. SHINY, CAPT'N.**

** On another note, I was a bit sad that nobody found my "As I Lay Dying" reference. Awwww….Sad face. It was, "The light from the screen ran out of Emma's eyes…" It was a tip of the hat to Faulkner's words, "…the land runs out of Darl's eyes…"**

** No? Nobody? I found that I thoroughly enjoyed Faulkner's work. **

** Anywho! Let's move onto business!**

** Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine**

* * *

Ruby slid into the seat next to Emma, "Alright. Spill."

Emma glanced over before grumbling, "I don't know what you're talking about." She lifted the mug of hot chocolate to her lips to take a large gulp.

"That," Ruby pointed one glossy red nail at Emma's mug, "is the third hot chocolate you've had in the last hour. I know an aching soul when I see one. Now talk."

The sheriff huffed loudly, putting the cup down and twirling it slowly on the bar by its handle, "What? I'm not allowed to drink hot chocolate? It's not like it's whiskey or anything?"

"Would you _want_ whiskey in it?" Ruby asked.

Emma opened her mouth to snap back a retort, but when nothing came, her shoulders hunched and she grumbled, "Don't you have tables to wait or something?"

"Does it _look_ like I have tables to wait?" Ruby queried dryly, waving her arm at the near empty diner. It was early in the afternoon, right before the lunch rush. Everyone in town was occupied with work or otherwise reluctant to leave the warmth of home and office, wary of the biting chill that grew in the air with every passing day.

Emma did not reply. Instead she raised the hot chocolate to her lips again, using it like a shield to ward of Ruby's prying questions.

"Come on," Ruby nudged Emma's shoulder with her own, "You can tell your good friend Ruby all your woes."

Sighing, Emma looked over, "Well…"

"Ooooh! Ooooh! Wait, wait, wait!" Ruby fished around in her pockets, retrieving a pair of squared black spectacles. With a flourish and an officious clearing of her throat, she put them on and flicked her hair over one shoulder. Then she steepled her fingers and announced professionally, "The doctor is in."

A snort of laughter escaped Emma, her nose buried in her mug, sending whipped cream flying everywhere, "Ack!" she yelped, swatting at the clots of cream sailing through the air. Grabbing a few napkins, she started cleaning up the counter and at the front of her jacket. When she looked over at Ruby, she couldn't stifle a guffaw. Ruby sat completely still, looking thoroughly unimpressed, clumps of whipped cream dripping down her glasses.

"Smooth, Emma," Ruby drawled, snatching up a napkin herself and rolling her eyes, "Real smooth."

"Sorry," Emma managed through her chortles.

"Harrumph," came the terse response, "Remind me to never serve you hot cocoa with whipped cream again."

"Hey, Ruby," Emma began, voice suddenly sober, her expression solemn.

Ruby looked up from cleaning her glasses, "Yeeeeesss?" she drew the word out expectantly.

"Remember never to serve me whipped cream again."

Ruby glared, "You're hilarious," she said, sarcastic, fitting her glasses back into place, "I can't imagine why your relationship problems aren't going well."

At this Emma's face immediately fell. Her shoulders slumped and she turned back to her hot cocoa, clutching the mug in a white-knuckled grip.

Ruby's eyebrows rose in surprise, "Wow. That bad, huh?"

Emma mumbled something unintelligible.

"Go on," Ruby leaned on the counter with one elbow, studying the sheriff's profile, "What happened between you and our lovely Madame Mayor?"

Emma's head jerked, blonde curls bouncing. She turned a wide-eyed stare upon her friend, "How -?"

"Oh, please," Ruby waved the question away before Emma could even finish it, "Do you think I'm stupid? You've been pining after Regina for weeks now."

Emma's back straightened, "I have not!" she denied hotly. But Ruby simply peered at her over the rim of her glasses, and Emma deflated, "Well…maybe just a bit…" she groused.

"My nose never lies," Ruby tapped the side of said nose and winked, "It can smell sexual tension a mile off."

"Yeah, well, I think your noise won't be having any more whiffs of that from me for a while," Emma admitted, forlorn.

"Not if _I_ have anything to say about it," Ruby scooted closer until she sat upon the very edge of the barstool, leaning in conspiratorially, "So, what happened. Don't leave out any details. I need to live vicariously through you, after all."

Emma blinked at her, "But, you -?"

Ruby snapped her fingers in Emma's face, "Let's not change the subject. We're not here to discuss my non-existent love life."

Something akin to a sullen pout crossed Emma's features, but she relented, "Well, two days ago Regina and I were watching a movie –"

"Ooooh! What movie?" Ruby broke it.

"_The Philadelphia Story_."

"Good choice."

"You've seen it?" Emma asked.

"Eyes on the prize, Em," Ruby pushed the question aside.

"Err…Right," Emma fiddled uncomfortably with her mug, rolling the warm walls of it between her palms, "Nothing really happened during the movie. She had her leg across my lap, that sort of thing. But after it ended, she sort of…" Emma made a motion like a cat pouncing upon a mouse, fingers crooked into claws.

Ruby made a high-pitched growling noise in the back of her throat, grinning wickedly, "Slow down there, tiger!"

In spite of herself, Emma's cheeks flushed, "Yes, well. Ahem. Things were getting _heated_, and she was being a bit…uh…_not gentle_. Which is fine, really," she added hurriedly, "I was all for it. But then she just stopped. And then next thing I knew, I was locked outside."

Ruby was frowning thoughtfully, "Hmm…" she drummed her fingers on the table, looking off into space, "Sounds like the Mayor got cold feet."

"Yeah, but -!" Emma spluttered, gesticulating wildly with her hands, narrowly missing knocking over her drink, "What did I _do?_"

Ruby reached out to pat Emma's knee in a comforting gesture, saying soothingly, "Hey…You listen to me, Emma Swan," she caught Emma's gaze and held it, suddenly serious, "You didn't do anything wrong. Relationships aren't easy. Especially when one of the parties involved is more used to intimidation than affection." She stood, smiling, and made her way behind the bar, "Just give her time. She'll come around." Suddenly, she bent over, rummaging about behind the bar. When she emerged, she held a bottle of _Baileys Irish Cream_ in her hand, "Now," she swung the bottle from her fingers as though dangling a treat, "how about I make us some _real _hot chocolate?"

Emma ducked her head, hiding her unsteady grin, "I'd like that," she said, twining her fingers together, "And…Ruby?"

"Hmm?" already unscrewing the top, the waitress was preparing their beverages.

"Thanks."

Ruby smiled warmly, "You bet."

* * *

**Normally I don't do an omake, but…**

** EMMA: So….no love life, huh?**

** RUBY: Just because I like to showcase my awesome bod, doesn't mean I'll sleep with just anybody.**

** EMMA: But do you have your eyes on someone?**

** RUBY: None of your business.**

** EMMA: But -! But you just drilled me on **_**my**_** love life!**

** RUBY: And you folded like a damp napkin. Honestly, I expected more resistance from you.**

** EMMA: You're a terrible person.**

** RUBY: I'm a member of SWEN. There's a difference.**

** EMMA: A member of what?**

** RUBY: …Do you even know what the internet **_**IS?**_


	12. Chapter 12

**Aaaaaaaaaaaaangst.**

** No love story is complete without angst. THUS SPAKE KORE-THUSTRA.**

** Terrible Nietzsche references aside, enjoy!**

** Dislcaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

Regina pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. She had a terrible headache. It did nothing to assuage the sinking feeling in her stomach that had dwelt there for the last three days. Anger and frustration roiled in her gut, burning liquid bright and acidic, so strong she could almost taste it, rising up her throat like bile. Aching needles stabbed the space behind her eyes. This had to be the worst week she could ever recall spending here in Storybrooke. First that disastrous Halloween, then that disastrous movie night with Miss Swan, and now a headache to rival a lobotomy sans anesthetics.

She needed more coffee.

Resisting the urge to rub at her eyes and ruin her makeup, she jabbed a finger on the intercom button and barked, "Coffee," knowing her assistant needed no more instruction than that.

Elbows planted firmly upon her broad desk, she looked down at the sprawl of untidy paper work. The lack of organization made a muscle in her cheek twitch. Tucking her hair behind one ear, she cleared her throat and set about the task of stacking the stray documents into little towers of paper. The process grounded her somewhat, putting her somewhat at ease. Most things in life she could not control, but at least this small act was in her power. She could work. She could run this town. She could manage everything one small step at a time. The trick was not to become overwhelmed by the raw scope of events, to drown, to be crushed by the unbearable load.

The door to her office opened. A creak accompanied it. Regina made a mental note to have the hinges oiled.

She did not look up, expecting her assistant to place the coffee on her desk and then leave, per usual. Footsteps grew closer and stopped directly in front of her desk. Shooting an irritable glance up, Regina started to bite off a few scathing words, only to be struck short.

Emma stood there, fiddling with the zipper of her red jacket, staring directly down at her. She was biting her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth. Expressionless, giving away nothing, Regina allowed herself to stare if but for a moment, resisting the urge to lick her own lips at the sight.

Back straightening, Regina drew a deep breath, "Miss Swan," she began, flicking her hair away in that nervous gesture she despised so much, "what are you doing here?'

Hesitation gripped Emma for only a moment before she announced firmly, "I came to talk." Her hands lowered from their position on her jacket zipper to her sides, held straight and determined, jaw squared in that pugnacious setting Regina recognized all too well; Henry often wore such an expression when he refused to back down from a point. At the thought Regina's dark eyes narrowed incrementally. Her head was pounding now, but she ignored it.

"You couldn't have called?" Regina tried hiding behind her work, continuing to stack and shuffle papers into neat piles. The last person she wanted to talk to was Emma Swan.

"You know very well I've called, texted, left messages," Emma pressed, words almost spoken in an irritable growl, "None of which you've cared to respond to."

Dropping a stack of papers onto her desk in a loud smack, Regina glared up at the sheriff. She had just about had enough of this charade, "What do you want, Miss Swan?"

A note of desperation entered Emma's voice, "I just want to talk to you," she insisted, eyes shining bright and clear as gems. People just didn't have a right to have eyes like that, Regina thought to herself. All large and doe-like and pleading. It was unsightly. It made Regina's hands clench into fists, her eyes sear a charred black, like horse-flesh set too long upon an open flame, the surface marred with scarlet cracks.

"Well," Regina rose swiftly to her feet and started to slowly make her way around the table, dragging her hand across the surface, fingers weaving between trinkets. Her voice lowered to a sultry hiss as she approached Emma, "Then talk."

Sea green eyes wandered across Regina's body, and Emma took a half-step back, stammering, "I-I…"

Regina drew right up against Emma until their bodies were barely brushing, and she raised one hand to innocently toy with a lock of golden hair, twisting it around her finger and tugging slightly, releasing it so that it bounced back into place, "Well, Miss Swan? Are you going to talk? Or did you come here for something _else_?"

Regina could hear the sharp intake of air when she leaned in, skimming the tip of her nose along Emma's jaw. The nausea gripped her stomach all the tighter, but she pushed the sensation aside. Nevertheless, she could not keep the venom from her words, curls of anger like a fetid shadow, a slick serpent with backs that slipped over one another as it uncoiled in her chest, "You're just like all the others, aren't you?" Her voice was a deadly snarl, lips curled in a sneer. Her hand moved from Emma's hair to her throat, tracing an artery, nails dragging lightly, just enough to make Emma squirm, "If all you want is a quick path to my bed, then perhaps you're not worth my time, Miss Swan."

Tilting her head up, Regina leaned in, intent upon a kiss that would leave Miss Swan weak-kneed and malleable, like dough in her hands. Surprise cast across her features when her mouth met only a smooth, pale cheek; Emma had turned her head aside abruptly. Regina pulled back, stunned. It took Emma a moment to turn and look at her once more, and when she did her gaze looked almost desolate, her mouth set in an unyielding line. Again, Regina was left puzzled. This was not how things were supposed to go. Emma was supposed to succumb to her advances. She was supposed to have her way Emma and prove to herself that this was nothing more than a passing fancy, a childish infatuation. Moreover, she was supposed to prove to Emma that pursuing this relationship in a serious manner was utter folly.

But then again, Emma Swan never did like to play by the rules.

A huff of irritation and internal resolve escaped Emma, and she spoke, "I will not be your play-thing for you to string along. I've done that before with other people, and frankly I'm beyond that now. If I just wanted sex, then I could go elsewhere. But that's not why I'm here." Those glass-green eyes closed momentarily as Emma further steeled herself. When they opened again, she brushed the back of her fingers gently across the high bluffs of Regina's cheeks. Regina started as though she had been scalded, but she did not recoil. An unfathomable look dwelled in Emma's gaze now, and Regina desperately wanted to know its true nature, "All I came here to say," Emma continued, words suddenly soft, "is that I know these things aren't always easy. And you can take all the time you need, because I'm not going anywhere."

Emma's hand lowered and she moved away, striding towards the door. Not turning to watch her go, Regina blinked at the empty space Miss Swan had just inhabited. The ache in her skull grew. Perhaps a phalanx had taken up residence in her brain – it was the only explanation behind what felt like a bristling wall of spears slicing at the tender flesh there. And now the door was swinging shut behind Miss Swan's retreating figure, boots clacking gracelessly across the marble floors, and still Regina could not bring herself to give chase, despite the fact that she dreadfully wanted to.

This was definitely one of the worst weeks in recent memory.

* * *

**FUN FACT: Ivan "the Terrible" is actually a bit of a mistranslation. It better translates to something like "Ivan the Awe-Inspiring," or – as I prefer – "Ivan the AWESOME." Because he's such a badass mutherfucker.**

** I have no idea why I wanted to share this with you. But I just did. Because I can. Deal with it.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

Nights came early now. Autumn was beginning to fade into winter. Mornings brought a wave of thick frost that coated windows and slicked the handles to the doors of cars. A chill crept into houses and beneath thick pea-coats, tugging at skin with icy fingers. The scent of burning oak and crackling pine filled the air, chimneys trailing stalks of smoke, tendrils tapered thin against a white and clouded sky.

Regina gazed out her office window, chair swiveled fully around. Her fingers were steepled and she occasionally bumped their tips against her lips and nose, lost in thought. Already the light was beginning to fade, the sun slipping low against the horizon, shining feebly through the clouds. It was only 4 in the evening. Technically she had an hour of work left, but she found she could not bring herself to care. A mug of fresh coffee steamed, gripped between her thighs, so hot the skin beneath her grey slacks burned, but she made no move to pick it up. The slight sting grounded her.

Three days had slipped by, slow as grains of arid sand caught in glass, each moment dragging painfully. Regina found herself far too consumed by her own thoughts, her fears, her incalculable desires.

Inhale. Exhale. She controlled her breathing, holding each breath for a few seconds before releasing it and starting anew.

The complete lack of Miss Emma Swan for the last three days had been driving her to distraction. She had thought that perhaps some space would afford her some measure of peace, but she could not have been more wrong. It seemed Miss Swan's absence was far more detrimental to her psyche than beneficial, a fact which only continued to irritate her. Miss Swan swept through her town, her life, like a pestilence, sowing desperation and despair wheresoever she flew, a dread horseman upon a steed tawny as her hair, with eyes sickly and pale, and bloodied hooves that stamped the earth into a mighty tremble; and when it champed at the rusted bit, sweat-lathered flanks heaving from exertion, its mouth foamed black and flecked the air with ruin.

Perhaps Regina should have simply torched Miss Swan's foul mount – preferably with the rider trapped inside.

Even as she thought it, though, she knew she was fantasizing of enflaming Emma in a far different manner.

An edge of sunlight struck just so across the office, making the apple of crimson glass sparkle. Gaze darting towards it, Regina's lips pressed together into a narrow line, displaying her displeasure. Those wine-dark depths continued to mock her, even as the sun finally slipped fully beyond the horizon, leaving the room bereft, cast in cool shadow.

With a resigned sigh Regina lifted the coffee to her mouth and took a begrudging sip. She had waited long enough; it was time to pay Miss Swan a visit.

* * *

"So do you want me to cook the pasta or -?"

"No!" Mary Margaret dove forward and hastily snatched the box of elbow macaroni from the table-top before Emma could so much as look at it, as though protecting her firstborn child from a biblical plague.

Emma crossed her arms and muttered sullenly, "Your confidence overwhelms me, MM."

Smiling apologetically, Mary Margaret nevertheless continued to cradle the box in her arms as though afraid Emma would make a sudden lunge for it, "I mean…Uh…I'll take care of the pasta. Why don't you grate the cheese instead?"

Emma picked up the squarish cheese grater, glinting a steely chrome in the glare of the kitchen lights, "You'll trust me with a sharp object, but not with an open flame?" she asked, dubious.

"At least then you're only a danger to yourself," Mary Margaret mumbled under her breath, filling a wide-bowled pot with water from the tap.

"I'm right here! I can _hear_ you!"

But Mary Margaret was already moving on, pretending that Emma had never spoken. She placed the pot on the stove, twisting a knob to the appropriate dial, and reaching into a nearby cupboard for salt, "This should only take about forty-five minutes total. And homemade Mac and Cheese is a simple dish, so you should be able to recreate it without much…_duress._"

"Forty-five minutes?" Emma frowned, lower lip sticking out petulantly, "But that's so _looooong._"

Mary Margaret directed a level, brook-no-nonsense look at Emma, who huffed loudly and pouted. Still, she turned, unwrapped a block of cheese on the counter and began grating it over a cutting board, stopping every now and then to pinch a few shreds and sneak them into her mouth with a pleased hum. After she had created a few sizeable mounds from various cheeses, Mary Margaret took over despite Emma's protests. Though the teacher was smaller in build, she was able to effectively block Emma from the stove-top using her body. Emma insisted on hovering, though, leaning in over Mary Margaret's shoulder as the school teacher sprinkled generous handfuls of cheese into a saucepan of milk. Almost incessantly Mary Margaret would stir the cheesy concoction with a flat wooden spoon, making sure everything melted evenly. When she went to drain the pasta into a strainer set in the sink, Emma made her move, lifting the wooden spoon to her mouth and peeking over her shoulder to ensure she wasn't caught.

"Emma!" Mary Margaret scolded without turning around, making Emma leap away, fluttering her eye lashes and feigning innocence.

"Hmmmm?" Emma shifted the wooden spoon behind her back, hiding it from view.

Mary Margaret whirled about, eyes narrowed, "You touched the saucepan."

"Who? Me? I would _never_?" Melted cheese dripped down the handle onto her thumb.

Luckily for her, a knock at the door interrupted them.

"I got it!" Emma bounced away, careful to keep the spoon out of sight. But her smile faltered when she opened the front door and saw who stood outside.

"Regina –" she immediately forgot all about her silly kitchen act, hands falling to her side.

Her red scarf was wound about her neck and lower face, the ends tucked into her black pea coat to ward off the cold. Reaching up, she tugged down one of the folds to speak, "I don't _do_ relationships, Miss Swan," Regina announced without preamble, back stiff.

Emma blinked and floundered for a response, "I…Ok?"

"But I also don't want you not with me," Regina continued, firm yet stiff, clipped in her presentation, "So I am willing to compromise."

A chill crept in from the open door, making Emma rub her arms even through the wool sweater she had borrowed from Mary Margaret. The teacher herself was acting as though absolutely nothing were out of the ordinary, going about cooking in the kitchen, though her movements were slightly slower, and she occasionally rose up on her toes to peer out the door, watching them out of the corner of her eye. Emma gestured for Regina to go on, "Alright. What's your compromise?"

Regina drew in a deep breath, then said, "Dinner. Or rather dinners. Three days out of the week at my house with me and Henry. The first will be tomorrow evening."

Nibbling on her lower lip, Emma barely had time to think. Those unfathomably dark eyes flicked across Emma's face and Regina snapped, "You have something on your mouth, Miss Swan," she pointed, "It's rather distracting. As is that incessant gnawing at your lip."

Hand darting up, Emma wiped at an offending spot of cheese on her mouth and – without thinking – lapped it up from her fingers to erase the evidence. At that, Regina's gaze grew heated, hooded, and she drew in a sharp breath.

"Uh…" Emma grimaced with a shrug, "Sorry."

Regina seemed to visibly shake herself, shifting somewhat on her feet and looking away, "Yes or no, Miss Swan?"

"What?"

Scowling, Regina repeated, voice biting irritably, "_Dinner. _Yes or no?"

"Oh!" Emma knuckled her temple, leaning on the doorframe with her elbow, "Yeah! Of course. I'll be there."

"Good," Regina nodded sharply.

A moment of awkward silence filled the space before it was broken by Emma's question, "Do you need me to cook anything?"

Something close to a wry smile flitted across Regina's lips, "No. I know about the Great Fire. Positively Visigothic, I hear."

Emma's face darkened, expression thunderous, teeth grinding, "Is that so?" she glared over her shoulder at Mary Margaret, who was stirring the cheese a bit too vigorously.

"Just bring yourself," Regina almost sounded reassuring, if not for her brisk tone. In order to avoid another painful silence, she added, "Have a good evening, Miss Swan."

"Yeah," Emma waved weakly as Regina made a crisp about face, "See you."

* * *

**Christ, I can't think of a good story to tell...I did have a reference in here, but it was pretty typical of me. "Wine-Dark." Just a typical Homeric reference. No big deal. **

**Ooooh! I suppose I could talk about color in the ancient world! Alright. It's happening. So! They thought of color differently than we do. It's part of the reason why I kind of dislike when people ask, "What's the word for _purple_in Latin?" and I just sort of stumble and go, "Welllll...What do you mean by _purple_...?" ****It's also why it't a bit of a pet-peeve of mine when I watch movies and shows about ancient Rome. Purple is a big color in ancient Rome, so you see it all the time in movies. But oftentimes the movies don't get it _quite_ right. Purple was the color that bordered the _toga praetexta_, which was worn by boys not yet come of aid and certain priests. And then the _toga picta_, which was worn by generals awarded triumphs, was solid purple, which is part of how purple came to be the "imperial color" (imperial is derived from _imperator_, a title given to a military commander, and _imperium_, which roughly translates as "military power/authority" specifically with regard to sovereignty). _  
_**

**This kind of purple, however, came from a special snail found on the coast of Africa among other places, known as Tyrian Purple (Tyre being a city in Lebanon, where Dido was from. So you'll often get epithets for Dido like "Tyrian Dido" or "Phoenissian Dido." The name of the people "The Phoenicians" literally means _Purple People. _Feel free to start singing "Purple People Eater" now. I always do). Tyrian Purple is very dark and reddish looking to our eyes. To me, it looks more red than purple, almost maroon-ish.**

**It's the quickest way to see if the wardrobe department of a show/movie has done their homework properly. If Caesar steps onto screen in a glaring _purple_ purple toga, you can immediately go, "HA. WRONG, BITCHES."  
Gladiator gets it wrong, btw. They go almost a dark blue/purple. I mean, it's pretty, but it's not quite right...**


	14. Chapter 14

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

Normally, Emma Swan exuded a cocky confidence, evidenced in her swagger, shoulders carelessly slumped, boots slapping against the pavement. It was one of her trademarks, right alongside her firm sense of justice, of right and wrong. Today, though, her confidence flagged. She chewed nervously on her nails all through work, constantly distracted, checking the time every two minutes, and now the moment she both dreaded and anticipated had arrived.

It was evening and it was time for her first dinner in what would hopefully become just the first installment in a series of many dinners to come.

Sitting on the couch and tugging on her boots, freshly showered, she fretted incessantly, "What do I bring?"  
Mary Margaret, who sat at the dining room table not too far away, looked up from grading homework with a frown, "She specifically said _not_ to bring anything."

"Yeah. But what if that's some twisted kind of test devised by her feminine wiles?!"

Mary Margaret snorted and turned back to the stack of papers before her, adorned with the childish scrawl of her students, "Do you seriously think Regina would do that?"

"Have you _met_ Regina?" Emma tugged the laces of her brown boots harshly, sawing them back and forth, so that the leather clung snugly to her calf.

Flicking her purple grading pen over a page, Mary Margaret rolled her eyes, "Weren't you just complaining about wanting to kill her a week and a half ago? And now you're worrying yourself sick over her? What do you want to do? Bring her roses? Quote Shakespeare? No _Romeo and Juliet_, though," she gestured with her pen as though stabbing the air with a knife, "If you're going to quote Bill the Bard, then at least pick a _good_ play."

But Emma leapt to her feet – boots half laced – and jabbed an accusatory finger over the back of the couch at her friend, "This is all _your_ fault! You! Miss. Olive-Branch-Bullshit!"

"Oh, no," Mary Margaret drawled sarcastically, "You've discovered my nefarious schemes. Whatever shall I do?" She shook her head, twirling the purple pen in her fingers as she moved on to the next paper.

It seemed that such snarky remarks did nothing to soothe Emma's anxiety, "Mary Margaret…" she whined, slumping her torso over the back of the couch, head and arms hanging down, "Heeeeelp…"

At the utterly despondent note in Emma's plea, Mary Margaret sighed. Dropping her pen, she stood and made her way over to the couch, kneeling down on the floor so that their faces were level, "You'll be fine," she assured Emma with a small smile. Emma gazed back with that sort of lost, wide-eyed stare she did so well, a skill she must have mastered in foster homes, right alongside her stubbornness, "Just be yourself," Mary Margaret continued.

Emma pulled a face at that, nose wrinkling in distaste.

Mary Margaret laughed at the expression, "Yes, yes. I know it sounds terribly cliché, but it's also true. Just relax," she patted Emma on the head, then added playfully, "And brush your hair before you go."

"Yes, ma'am," Emma mumbled.

* * *

The dinner went as smoothly as one could have expected. All night, Regina remained cold, aloof, reticent, never meeting either her or Henry's gaze for more than a few seconds. She spoke sparingly, terse orders to Emma to use her napkin, gentle admonishments to Henry for avoiding his asparagus. Truthfully, Emma felt surprisingly underwhelmed; she had definitely worried too much. Though she supposed it was better than Regina throwing plates and hurling expletives. Moreover, at the end of the night Regina walked Emma to her car and parted with a short, "Until tomorrow evening, Miss Swan."

The second night passed without much change. Henry took up the conversational mantle just as he had done the night before, babbling on and on about what he had done at school, happy to have Emma there, while Regina sat at the head of the table, tightly gripping her cutlery as she ate, silent.

On the third night, Regina allowed Emma to put Henry to bed – at Henry's request, but it was still a welcome improvement.

On the fourth night, Emma noticed a streak of flour in Regina's hair. But when she reached up to brush it away, Regina flinched and leaned far back, gaze guarded and flinty. Emma had seen that look before upon the faces of other children in the foster care system, those unlucky children who had gotten the _unpleasant_ families.

On the fifth night, Emma brought flowers: a crooked branch of pale-throated orchids. Wordlessly, Regina had taken them, expression never changing, and placed them on a table in the foyer. They were still there when Emma returned on the sixth night.

On the sixth night, the end of the second week of their routine dinners, Regina relaxed enough for Emma to touch her without a sharp glare in return. It happened seamlessly. Regina had been running late at work and was still in the process of cooking when Emma arrived. When told to set the table, Emma began gathering placemats and silverware. The plates, however, were located in a cupboard near Regina's head, and Emma gently rested her hand on Regina's shoulder to indicate her presence as she stretched to reach the plates. Regina simply paused in finely chopping parsley for a garnish, and glanced over before turning her attention back to the matter at hand.

Over the two weeks, Emma had of course noticed how Regina would watch her when she thought the sheriff wasn't looking. Sometimes her dark eyes held an almost amber glint, sharp as a hawk's, waiting for some transgression to swoop down with righteous fury. But sometimes Regina regarded her like a panther dozing upon a branch, sleek, black, and hungry.

Yet it wasn't until the eighth night, mid-way through the third week, that Regina allowed Emma to kiss her after Henry had gone to bed. It was short, just a shallow meeting of mouths as Regina was seeing Emma out, standing in the foyer right in front of the closed door. The orchid still thrived upon that small table beneath one of Regina's many mirrors. And afterwards, when Regina quickly pulled away, she looked less predatory and more like a skittish colt, striving to tamp down the instinct of mindless flight in the face of fear.

On the ninth night, Emma felt audacity streak through her system. When the Mayor returned from putting Henry to sleep, she boldly pressed Regina up against the nearest wall and kissed her senseless. The perennial tension evaporated and Regina's body seemed to melt beneath her hands, all soft and pliant. Their breathing grew heavy and labored between exchanged kisses, hips chafing, mouths moving wetly. But when Emma heard a tiny whimper, she forced herself to stop, leaning her forehead against Regina's and smoothing out short brown locks with her hand, sliding between her fingers like satin. She had never before heard Regina – uptight, controlled and controlling Regina Mills – make such a noise.

On the tenth night, it was Regina who initiated contact. They were sitting together on the couch in the living room, a black and white film playing in the background – _Young Frankenstein_, which Emma insisted Regina watch. Halfway through the film, Regina had scooted up next to Emma and was paying with a bundle of golden hair, chuckling every now and then at the screen. At one point, she reached up to thumb affectionately at Emma's ear. It was a decidedly odd gesture, but Emma did not pull away.

On the eleventh night, though, everything changed.

Emma had gone out to her car at the end of the evening as usual, only to storm back into the house moments later, looking furious.

"What is it, Miss Swan?" Regina blinked at her from where she stood in the kitchen, drying recently washed dishes.

Emma's voice shook with rage, "Some _kids_ slashed my tires! And since it's after ten on a Saturday night, nobody in this damn town is awake to come tow my car to the shop!" Her hands were clenched into fists, teeth grinding, and she paced on the other side of the kitchen.

Rather than look surprised, Regina merely cocked her head and picked up another plate to dry, "Nothing to be done, then," she shrugged, nonchalant, "I'll put on the kettle. You can calm down with a cup of tea and stay the night."

That caught Emma off guard. She had expected Regina to drive her home or, worse, tell her to buck up and walk. Swallowing her tirade, she managed a shocked, "Oh…Ok."

* * *

_**Young Frankenstein **_**is the shiiiiiiiit.**

**And I dissed **_**Romeo and Juliet**_** in this chapter. Why? Well, I personally find that play to be done to death. There's **_**Tristan and Isolde**_**, and there's also **_**Pyramus and Thisbe**_**. The story is old as balls, which normally wouldn't deter me in the slightest, but it's gotten to the point where I just can't stand its omnipresence anymore. It's like that one song they won't stop playing on the radio, and every time you even hear a similar chord progression years later, your ears start to bleed (CURSE YOU, PACHELBEL!)**

** That being said, I like **_**Shakespeare in Love**_**, and I've seen **_**Romeo and Juliet**_** twice live, and both were excellently executed. Generally, though, I prefer plays like **_**Much Ado**_** and **_**Lear**_**. And anything with Falstaff; that guy is fucking hilarious. And while I'm not a big fan of **_**Hamlet**_** either, Queen Gertrude's speech after Ophelia's death gives me shivers every time.**

** Wow. I just got chills thinking about it. Same thing happens to me during Clytemnestra's speech after killing Agamemnon in the **_**Oresteia**_**. Holy fuck. That's still one of the most chilling monologues I've ever encountered. **

** You know what? Fuck it. I'm putting that monologue here. Because I can. And because it's a good read, dammit.**

** "****How else to prepare a death for deadly men who seem to love you? How to rig the nets of pain so high no man can overleap them? I brooded on this trial, this ancient blood feud year by year. At last my hour came. Here I stand and here I struck and here my work is done. I did it all. I don't deny it, no. He had no way to flee or fight his destiny - our never-ending, all embracing net, I cast it wide for the royal haul, I coil him round and round in the wealth, the robes of doom, and then I strike him once, twice, and at each stroke he cries in agony -he buckles at the knees and crashes here. And when he's down I add the third, the last blow, to the Zeus who saves the dead beneath the ground I send that third blow home in homage like a prayer. So he goes down, and the life is bursting from him - great sprays of blood, and the murderous shower wounds me, dyes me black and I, I revel like the Earth when the spring rains come down, the blessed gifts of god, and the new green spear splits the sheath and rips to birth in glory. So it stands, elders of Argos gathered here. Rejoice if you can rejoice - I glory. And if I'd pour down his body the libation it deserves, what wine could match my words? It is right and more than right. He flooded the vessel of our proud house with misery, with the vintage of the curse and now he drains the dregs. My lord is home at last" (1397-1427).**


	15. Chapter 15

**As I've mentioned before elsewhere, I always find it an interesting exercise to write smut without sounding completely vulgar. Obscenity to me should always be reserved for scenes that make the audience recoil. For instance, I absolutely love writing gratuitous violence. Moreover, there is an almost horrific aspect to obscenity, for the underlying reasons behind it making people squirm are generally rooted in obscenity acting as an agent contrary to perceptions of societal norms. Penetration in body-horror is an excellent example. If you watch any body-horror, you can look back at the crowd and immediately see who identifies with the female protagonist and who with the male antagonist – all you have to do is watch and see if they squirm when there's penetration on screen. If they do, then they identify with the female. (This is the reason why I was disappointed with the recent movie **_**Prometheus**_**; it was essentially just body-horror with pretty shiny lights and pretty shiny graphics. Such a shame, really…)**

** Alright, so that was a very long preface to me saying that this chapter involves smut. **

** In other words: YE BE WARNED, WHO PASS BENEATH MY AUTHOR-GATES. STEAMY SWAN QUEEN SEXY-TIME AWAITS.**

** Good? Alright, let's get on with it then.**

** Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

The herbal tea acted as a soothing agent, calming and decaffeinated. Regina had considered having caffeinated tea – perhaps even making a pot of coffee instead – but thought more energy to add to her jittery nerves wasn't such a good idea.

Emma had her elbows leaned upon the kitchen island so that she was bent almost completely perpendicular at the waist, rocking back from heel to toe, hands cradling her own mug of tea. She spoke, absent-minded, looking supremely comfortable in Regina's kitchen, "Mary Margaret always says that tea solves everything. Your cat dies? Have a cup of tea. You fail a class? Have a cup of tea. Your stove spontaneously combusts when your roommate is trying to make garlic bread? Have a cup of tea."

Regina snorted, lifting her cup to her mouth, "That sounds rather impractical. I'd address the problem, and _then_ have a cup of tea," she stated matter-of-factly.

Smiling, Emma snarked back, "Shocking."

"Besides," Regina continued, "I'd prefer coffee. But it's too late for that now."

It was only a half-lie. Even so, Emma's head lifted and she squinted. Those eyes glinted with something. Mischief? Desire? Regina could not tell, and it infuriated her, "We couldn't have you staying up too late, now could we, Madame Mayor?" Emma murmured into her mug.

Hearing the low note in her voice, Regina shivered, an involuntary action, and took a deep gulp. She coughed and choked, slamming down her tea to cover her lower face with one hand, and she grip her chest with the other. And Emma appeared at her side, patting her on the back, wearing a concerned expression.

"You alright?" she asked when Regina finally stopped, red-faced and wheezing.

Regina nodded and cleared her throat. She tried to pull away, to return to her tea and hide behind it, but hesitated when she felt Emma's hand still on her back, the edge of one callused thumb rubbing lightly through her crisp white shirt.

She froze. That familiar itch returned, that itch which tormented her whenever Miss Swan drew too near. A fine shiver ran from shoulder to knee, and Regina resisted the urge to scratch the itch, to round upon Emma as though upon limping prey and bear down upon her.

It seemed that Emma was either oblivious to Regina's affliction or simply did not care, for she stepped closer until she stood directly before her, hand slipping down to Regina's lower back, settling there, a broad-palmed warmth, "So…" she smirked, drawing the work out, "Which room am I staying in?"

The breath in Regina's chest hitched. She had played through this scenario a dozen times over the last few weeks, always assuming the aggressive role in her imagination. Now, though, she felt rooted in place. Over the course of the dinners she had been constantly expecting Emma to somehow trip up, to repel or be repelled, and to eventually flee. She had never dared to hope that Emma would actually succeed in sticking around, in slowly chipping away at Regina's walls until a breech occurred.

Emma's mouth brushed at the line of her jaw, ineffably soft, "I could sleep in the guest room, if you want," she whispered, and her lips travelled up to Regina's ear, "Or I could sleep _elsewhere_. If you want."

A sharp his escaped her as Emma began nibbling at the tender lobe of her ear. Her arms shot out and she clutched at Emma's hips, dragging her forward, their bodies radiating a shared heat. Working her way back down Regina's jaw, Emma seized her mouth in a searing kiss, which shot liquid fire straight down through Regina's stomach. They parted with a gasp after a few long moments, in which Emma's hands had moved up to tangle in dark hair, and Regina's had slipped beneath Emma's blue shirt, reveling in the downy skin at her waist.

"Elsewhere sounds good, Miss Swan," Regina panted, resolute in spite of the anxiety that twisted her gut alongside a raw and scalding need.

Briskly they strode from the kitchen, Regina flicking light-switches as they went, plunging the house into darkness as they made their way up the stairs. Emma was walking ahead, and Regina allowed her gaze to travel her body, lingering on the line of skin still showing above the waistline of those tight jeans. They snuck past Henry's room, entering the sprawling master bedroom beyond, and as soon as they were inside, Regina turned to shut the double-doors.

Just as the doors clicked shut, Emma was upon her, placing hot open-mouthed kisses to the back of Regina's neck, fingers fumbling with her shirt, pulling it from where it was tucked into her slacks in order to get at the warm skin beneath. Turning, Regina started working feverishly at the buttons of her shirt. Her hands trembled terribly and only increased when Emma moved her mouth to suck at a pulse-point on her neck. She ripped one of the buttons, but found she couldn't bring herself to care.

Shirt open down the middle at last, Emma began pushing it back from Regina's shoulders. It stopped half-way down, though, leaving Regina's arms constricted. Emma continued to nibble and suck down the slender column of her neck, but Regina herself found her breaths coming in gasps shorter than they should have been.

"No. Wait –!" she whimpered out, tense.

She was trapped, arms pinned to her side by the starched cotton of her shirt. Panic began to swiftly rise, wrapping its flinty fingers around her windpipe until the fear threatened to consume her. Her struggle was brief, though, for Emma stopped what she was doing to tug it completely off and toss it to the floor.

"You alright -?" Emma started to ask, but her query was cut off by Regina's mouth, hard upon her own.

Something in Regina snapped when she became free once more. All the carefully restrained fury and passion forged forward in an immolating haze, like a cloud of ash and bone rushing from a volcanic mountaintop, boiling through forests, obliterating trees to twig-like stumps. With a noise akin to a snarl, she shoved Emma back so that the sheriff stumbled. Gaze dark and flashing, stormy and tainted with thunder, Regina advanced, teeth bared. Emma's eyes widened, looking almost violet in the shadows, as she was pushed roughly onto the bed, hips straddled, caught.

Not content to wait, Regina wrenched Emma's shirt over her head before descending, locking her teeth sharply at the space where neck and shoulder met. Emma jerked, head tilting back, emitting a pleased groan. Pressing her fingers into skin, Regina was reminded of how yielding, how very human Emma Swan was, her body like a thrumming instrument held in suspension beneath, taut as horse-hair strings stretched upon a bow.

Emma tried to wrap her arms around Regina and pull her closer, but Regina balked and reared up to glare down at her. Her lip curled when Emma tried to sit up, and she pushed her back down onto the mattress, pinning her there, hands tightly gripping those pale shoulders.

"Don't move," Regina growled, driving the order home with a stiff nip to Emma's collarbone.

And, obedient, Emma ceased her struggles, though her muscles remained tightly bunched, straining to stay as still as possible even while quivering with anticipation. Regina moved down Emma's body and yanked her boots off. They were soon followed by the rest of her clothes. Slowly, Regina made her way back up, pausing to lap lines smooth across swathes of skin. The occasional bites must have smarted, for they were accompanied by involuntary jolts.

By the time she crouched, poised above Emma's prostrate form – silken hair spread like a feathered and aureate crown across the dark sheets – Emma's bare chest was heaving. She mouthed around Emma's breasts and stroked teasingly at her inner thighs, smiling into smooth skin when those legs twitched and spread further apart.

Unblinking, watching the woman beneath her, Regina's hand moved to the apex of those long legs. Her fingers sank, knuckle-deep, into that wet warmth, and Emma's hips canted upwards in response. She took note of every reaction to her movement – the way Emma's eyes would squeeze shut when she flicked her thumb, the way Emma would bite her lip when her fingers brushed deep inside just so.

Yes. This was what she had wanted all along: Emma moving against her, limbs all entangled, skin starting to shine with the faintest sheen of sweat, a combination of flayed nerves and exertion, panting deep shuddering breaths punctuated by throaty moans, open and yearning, wet and wanton. Grasping a fistful of that golden hair with her free hand, Regina yanked, revealing the pillar of her throat, and she latched onto it, pulling the tender flesh between her teeth, sucking until she could almost taste the blood pooling beneath, until Emma arched and came with a wrenching, muffled cry.

Their movements slowed. Regina watched with a shameless fascination as Emma continued to be wracked with little tremors, expression pinched almost as though in pain. Eventually, the tension ran from Emma's body and she became a loose pile of limbs, limpid and brimming with a self-satisfaction that made Regina's gaze hone to glinting black points. The only sound in the room was that of their breathing, still heavy, and Regina remained crouched over her like a lion guarding its recent kill.

It was Emma who broke the silence. "You're still wearing most of your clothes," she teased gently, fingering the cloth of Regina's pants and smirking, her impish smile a question.

But when her hand traveled up a smooth, olive-toned flank to trace a white lace bra, Regina suddenly burst into motion, snatching Emma's wrist and bringing it up to run her teeth against the meaty edge of a palm. She heard Emma inhale a lung-full of air and she grinned wickedly over the crest of Emma's curled fingers, "Oh, I am far from done with you, Miss Swan. My state of dress should be the least of your concerns."

* * *

_**Breeched walls**_**: Awww…look at that city under siege metaphor popping back up again! Mmmm….sexual imagery. It's better than porn. Because it also makes me laugh. Although porn does that too most of the time. My friends and I in college would watch spoof porn and laugh our asses off. Best one was a Pirates of the Caribbean porn spoof. It actually had a decent plot! And there were great costumes and special effects! I was mighty impressed. We even downloaded the sequel so we could find out what happened. **

**Wow. That was probably more about me than you ever wanted to know…Moving along!**

**Actually, there's nothing to move on to. I don't actually have anything else to say. But I couldn't just leave off with a note about watching porn! Though, now that I think about it, that would bookend this chapter quite well…**

**Fuck it.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

The air cooled. The bed leeched the warmth from their bodies. A delicate shiver passed through Emma, but it was a welcome chill to balance the lingering heat, like cradling a steaming mug of cocoa on a wintry day, that perfect balance of warmth and cold. A low rumbling came from the woman atop her, originating in the back of her throat, sounding suspiciously like a pleased purr – the kind of noise a savannah cat made when lounging in the sunny grasses.

Earlier Emma had managed to coax Regina into removing what had remained of her clothes, but it had required a few more sessions of heated lovemaking on her part; every time she had made a move to take off those clothes, or flip Regina over, or try to reciprocate in any way, Regina's teeth bared into a growling snarl, and Emma had been pushed back upon the bed again and again. She had always thought the word "ravish" sounded too extreme – something that only occurred in trashy harlequin novels – but she could find no other term that accurately described what Regina did to her. And between bouts, when Emma was sprawled upon the sheets, breathless and twitching from aftershocks, Regina crouched perfectly still and quiet, staring at her with a gaze both intense and somewhat unsettling, burning dark.

Eventually, though, eventually Emma divested Regina of her clothes and convinced her to let herself be touched. She wordlessly refused to take a subordinate position, riding Emma's fingers with an almost baleful passion, nails digging into the flesh beneath her, no less demanding in receiving pleasure than when she delivered it. Only when she was slumped across Emma's body was Emma able to slither out from under her. Even then, she only allowed herself to be taken when Emma made it clear she was going to kneel upon the floor, suppliant, dragging Regina's legs so that they hung over the side of the bed.

Now Regina was basking, having resumed her place atop Emma, nuzzling her with cheek and nose, even bumping her brow and the crown her head at the underside of Emma's chin, while Emma's hands drifted down Regina's sleek back in wandering paths. Unable to keep a small, satisfied yet sleepy smile from her face, Emma allowed Regina to continue with her nuzzling – more like the scenting of an animal than anything else. Still, it was a mark of a job well done, in her opinion. If Regina was openly showing affection – even slightly odd affection such as this – Emma certainly wasn't going to do anything that might jeopardize such a gesture. At this moment, she felt exquisitely content. She was starting to doze, when she suddenly blinked and looked down.

"It was you, wasn't it?" she asked with an incredulous grin.

"Hmm?" Regina hummed, breathing deeply, nose pressed into the skin where Emma's jaw and neck met, just below her ear.

Emma's chest shook with chuckles, "You slashed my tires, didn't you?"

Immediately Regina froze, body going tense under Emma's hands. She tried to wriggle away, but Emma's arms tightened around her torso, trapping her in place, "Now, now," she smiled at Regina's scowl, "There's no escape. Tell the truth."

Regina glared, but the sharp edge that usually accompanied her glares was dulled by her tousled hair, "I have no idea what you're talking about Miss Swan."

But Emma only laughed and swooped down to peck at Regina's brow, leaving the other woman looking stunned, "Well, next time just ask, alright? I don't want to have to buy a new set of tires every time we decide to have a _roll in ze hay_."

A harrumph escaped Regina, and she lowered her dark head to bury her face between Emma's breasts, grumpy at being so easily caught.

Emma bit her lip to keep the grin at bay, "You're going to hate me for saying this," she said, playing with Regina's ink-dark hair that spooled out across her pale skin, "but you're unbelievably cute when you're grumpy."

"_Excuse me?_" Regina's head shot up to direct another ineffectual glare at Emma.

Emma ruffled her head just to aggravate her, "So cute!"

In response, Regina's gaze darkened dangerously; she loomed over Emma and growled, "Oh, you're going to regret that, Miss Swan."

"Is that a threat?" Emma breathed, offering no resistance as Regina gripped her wrists and tugged them over her head, pinning them to the bed.

Eyes glittered black and deadly, yet somehow playful at the same time, Regina swirled her tongue in an intricate little pattern at the base of Emma's throat, "It's a promise."

* * *

Sleep was flighty that night for Regina. Miss Swan, however, did not seem to have any trouble, slumbering gently in the bed beside her, hair tumbled about her in careless array, beautiful to behold. Regina wore a contemplative frown – just a small crease between her eyebrows – as she studied Emma's slowly rising and falling chest, ribs expanding, deflating.

She fought the urge to turn Emma over, to swallow Emma's breath into her own lungs, to rake her hands from breast to narrow waist to swelling hips and tapered thighs. Regina's hands clenched at the thought, the fine cotton of her sheets spilling between her fingers.

Angry red blotches marred Emma's milky skin, some purpling dark in the center, physical evidence of their recent activities. Her eyes counted them all, lingering upon each in turn to recall with avid precision how it was given. An odd sense of satisfaction filled her upon seeing those bruises. They were visible marks that did more than assure her of her possession; they also served as a reminder. Her mind was still floating in a haze, heady and surreal. At the time, she had been utterly consumed and driven by mindless desire, and even now –hours later – she only began to feel herself drift downward. She grasped at the memories of what had ensued between herself and Miss Swan as though snatched at wisps of mist in the air. They shifted and swirled out of reach at her touch. Seeing the bruises upon Emma's skin helped her remember. It really had happened. It hadn't been a dream, or perhaps some cruel nightmare sent from Hell's mouth through ivory gates.

Regina shuddered, not from the chill morning air, but from a thread of heat that wound its way like a snake curling about her limbs, constricting her chest, its scales wrought from smoke and ember. She could suddenly see it all so vividly again. Flashes of memory, of Emma's mouth moving up her thighs, of her fingers clutching at blonde tresses and pulling forward with a sultry moan. Regina flushed at the memory. She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

A thought struck her. Horrified, she tried to recall. Had she actually said anything intelligible? Had she whispered Emma's name? Had she pleaded for release? While some details stood out starkly, others seemed to escape her. Cheeks burning, she prayed to whatever gods that may be she hadn't done anything so mortifying. Fucking Miss Swan was one thing, but _that_ sort of behavior was something else entirely. It made the entire situation far more _intimate_. And while she would never openly admit it – to herself least of all – the prospect of intimacy terrified her.

Birds began to chirp noisily outside. Regina glowered at the window, as if she could will the birds out of existence for breaking her train of thought. At that moment, though, a sleeping Emma decided to snuggle closer, and Regina's gaze returned to her, softening in spite of herself. Almost tentative, she reached out to trace Emma's shoulder with the very tips of her fingers.

The sun began to peek over the horizon now, tinging the sky a pale yellow and pink with its flossy rays. The window cast a long shard of light across the room, which slowly towards the bed. With a sigh, Regina slipped quietly out of bed, reluctant, and wrapped a white silk robe about herself. She would take a hot shower, then she would head downstairs to make coffee and start on breakfast. There was no use trying to sleep anymore now. Besides, Henry would be up soon – he was, like herself, an early riser. Sneaking a last glance over her shoulder at Emma slumbering peacefully upon her bed, Regina padded towards the bathroom.

* * *

**Yes, that was a "Young Frankenstein" reference. Because I love that movie. And because Inga is Emma's spirit animal.**

**"nightmare...ivory gates": a reference to - SURPRISE - the _Aeneid_. I can't remember if Dante used this as well, but in book 6 of the _Aeneid_, when Aeneas (also affectionately known as "Epic Douchebag" or "Pious Scum") left the underworld, he saw two gates, one of ivory, one of horn. Good dreams go through the gates of horn, bad dreams through the gates of ivory. Or something to that effect. One sec, let me check...Oh! Would you look at that! It's also from the _Odyssey, _book 19. Slight difference to what I thought: _true_ dreams come through the gates of horn, whereas _false_ dreams come through the gates of ivory. Bah. I was close. **

** And now I'm going to tell a completely irrelevant story. So, this one time, my professor brought in his hand-made toga to show us. This thing was legit: 20 feet of wool and heavy as balls. How do I know how heavy it was? Well, he asked for a volunteer to try it on for the class, and of course I went, "OOOOOH! ME ME ME!" (Yeah, I'm **_**that**_** student). At first he looked reluctant, but nobody else was volunteering (out of the 8 of us in class), so he just shrugged and waved me up to the front of the class. I modeled it, and was thoroughly enjoying myself while he used me as his mannequin. But then he said, "Now, only men wore the toga. The only women who would wear a toga were prostitutes."**

** We were all laughing, but then I abruptly stopped and thought about it for a moment, "Wait a minute…JUST WHAT EXACTLY ARE YOU SAYING?!" **

** I wore it to a Latin Club event too later that week, and my Classics friends were all making cat-calls whenever I'd walk by, much to the bewilderment of other non-Classics students on campus. Let me tell you: a toga doesn't look sexy. And it's one of the most awkward yet somehow stately garments I've ever worn – and that includes a hoop-skirt I had to wear once. **

** Don't ask. Just…don't. **


	17. Chapter 17

**Enjoy!**

** Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

When Emma awoke, she felt cozy and – it sounded strange even in her mind – absolutely delicious, if a bit sore in places. She stretched, body twisting beneath the sheets, arms pushing at the headboard, a long pleased groan escaping her. Sitting up, she winced and looked down. Her eyes widened, "Shit," she muttered.

While she knew that last night had involved quite a bit of rough sex, she hadn't been expecting quite so many bruises. At the time she certainly hadn't been complaining, but now she blinked down at her body, dazed. Bruises and teeth marks littered her skin; she looked like she had fallen down a hill, rolling and tumbling, and Regina had been the one to push her, smirking at the crest of the rocky knoll, arms crossed, smug.

Somehow she doubted Regina herself had more than one or two light hickeys.

Grumbling under her breath, Emma ran a hand through her wild locks, fingers snagging upon tangles. She stood and looked around for a brush. One sat upon a vanity near the closet. Grabbing it, Emma launched an assault upon her unruly curls, battling them into submission, tongue peeking out between her teeth in concentration. The alluring smell of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air and, eager, Emma put the brush back in its place before gathering up her clothes strewn across the room in careless abandon. Jeans buttoned, tight across her legs, she emerged from the master bedroom, pulling her black tank-top over her head.

She made her way downstairs, bare feet padding across the cold hardwood floors. She should have hunted for her socks as well. Warmth filled the kitchen, though, flooding the white-washed walls with heat from the stove, over which Regina stood, wielding a shining silver spatula like a sword.

"Good morning, Miss Swan," she greeted without looking up, "You're up earlier than expected."

Emma tilted her head, eyes roving over Regina's figure, clad in one of her typical power suits, hair perfectly coiffed, curling around one ear where she had tucked it. The sleeves of her immaculate white shirt were rolled up to the elbow, and though she wore an apron not a speck of grease or batter was to be seen upon it. Despite the gross amount of cooking Regina seemed to engage in, she rarely ever made any conceivable mess, and when she did it was quickly disposed of while she worked.

Moving closer, Emma replied warmly, "Good morning to you too."

Their hips bumped lightly as she drew up beside her, hand stroking at the Mayor's lower back. Regina's dark eyes darted towards her, but she said nothing about the placement of Emma's hand – a minor victory, but Emma would take anything she could get. Still, she refrained from wrapping her arms around Regina's waist and brushing her lips across the back of Regina's neck, parting that curled wave of dark hair with her nose to nuzzle at the downy nape and inhale the fresh scent there, like earth damp from recent rains, clean. That was the only way to describe it: utterly clean.

"Did you sleep well?" Emma asked, growing bolder, fingers tracing down the curve of Regina's opposite hip, slipping to her inner thigh.

Regina seemed entirely unaffected, "Not particularly," she admitted, spatula flashing down in a swift strike to flip a pancake.

"Ooooh! Are those blueberry pancakes?" Emma pointed, easily distracted.

Regina nodded, "Henry's favorite," she said in such a way that Emma blinked at her, curious. The Mayor's tone was defensive, as though by mentioning Henry she was denying that she had made breakfast for Emma at all, though there was clearly enough for everyone. Moreover, a light from the oven indicated that more were kept warm there.

"I'm sure he'll appreciate it," Emma insisted.

Regina said nothing, back stiff, shoulders thrown back, glaring down at the pancakes with a cold ferocity.

Reluctant, Emma moved away, reaching into one of the cabinets for a mug, "Do you want some coffee?"

"No," Regina drawled, ladling more batter into the pan sizzling with butter, "I made a whole pot of coffee so that I might have absolutely none of it."

"Uh huh," Emma was completely unfazed, taking down two mugs, "Sugar or cream?"

"Black."

Emma grinned, making her way to the refrigerator for milk, "Do you like your coffee like you like your women? Black, bitter, and preferably free-trade?"

At this Regina jerked and looked at her, somewhat aghast.

Emma laughed, "It's from a show," she explained.

Turning back to the stove, Regina growled something about Emma's "unsavoury taste in television," which only made Emma's smile broaden. Pouring a cup of coffee from the large French press resting upon the counter, Emma placed it by Regina's elbow and snuck in a quick kiss to her cheek. She received a dark glare for her troubles, and Regina snatched up her cup with an almost child-like petulance, "Your hair is a mess," she snapped, waspish, "and you should put on your jacket to cover those marks."

Pouring a quick dollop of milk into her own coffee, Emma replied, "I already brushed my hair – nice hairbrush by the way – and whose fault is it that I have so many bruises in the first place, hmm?"

Regina's eyes bulged and she slowly turned, furious, "You used my hairbrush?!" Her voice bordered on a screech that made Emma flinch.

_Whoops._

"Who? Me? What?" Emma hid behind her mug of coffee, "How 'bout them bears!" she exclaimed, smiling nervously.

Face flushed with rage, Regina's hand shook, white-knuckled around the spatula. She advanced upon Emma, brandishing the spatula to emphasize every hissed syllable, "No, go ahead, Miss Swan!" her eyes were stormy, ink-black and filed to razor edges, "Make yourself right at home! You can use my shower and towel as well!"

Emma retreated, keeping the island between them, "Now, now, Regina," she set her coffee down, hands raised in a soothing motion, "Let's just calm down."

But Regina was having none of her pacification, "Why don't you just bring over spare clothes while you're at it?" she snarled, darting around the edge of the island and swatting with the spatula, "Shall I clear out a space for you in my closet?!"

Emma narrowly dodged the spatula, grinning fiendishly and dancing around the island, "Are you asking me to move in? I never took you for a romantic."

"I said no such thing!"

"No, no! I'm touched! Really!" Emma egged her on with a mischievous sort of glee, "It's just, I think we should give this whole thing a few more weeks before we get to that."

Teeth bared, Regina lunged across the island, swiping the spatula in a broad arc, aiming to maim. Emma leapt back with a whoop of laughter, cackling at the sight of Regina sprawled out on her stomach across the island, still struggling to get at her, "Now _this_," Emma cooed, "is a pose I can get used to seeing you in."

Regina's face all but purpled, a vein popping on her forehead, and she spluttered in livid outrage. Their confrontation was cut short, though.

"Mom…?"

Regina froze and scrambled into an upright position, straightening her apron which had been knocked askew. She fixed a broad, fake, blatantly nervous smile in place, "Good morning, Henry!" Her voice was saccharine, overly cheery.

For a brief moment he merely regarded them both with a confused and suspicious gaze, gauging the situation. He was washed and clothed, hair wet and plastered flat to his head. At last he broke the awkward silence, "Something's burning."

Swearing, Regina rushed back to the stove in order to salvage what she could, "This is your fault," she snapped at Emma as she deposited four crispy black and charred discs into the garbage.

Emma grinned and lifted the coffee from where she had placed it a few minutes before, "I regret nothing."

A harrumph was Regina's response, delicately wiping the hot pan clean with a paper towel before scraping another thick slice of butter onto the dark surface, where it leapt and bubbled, "You," she jabbed an accusatory finger at Emma, "set the table, troublemaker."

"With pleasure."

Henry studied their interaction, a puzzled frown creasing his brow, "Did you two get in a fight?"

The two stopped and looked at him, "No," Emma was quick to respond, "We were just joking around earlier." But in the background, Regina muttered menacingly to herself, eyes narrowed in Emma's direction.

"Yeah, but…" his voice faded and he gestured to Emma's many bruises.

"Ahh…well…" she fished around for an explanation. Luckily Regina came to rescue.

"A sheriff's job is often fraught with physical activities," Regina said, curt and matter-of-fact, turning back to the stove as though the matter were closed.

Henry's mouth turned down, but he accepted that explanation. For now. Soon, they were seated at the dining room table, and Emma was asking cordially for the gravy bowl filled with warm maple syrup, which Regina handed over without complaint. He regarded them with mounting suspicion, hazel eyes squinted as he stuffed a too-large bite of blueberry pancake into his mouth, wiping a dribble of sticky syrup from his chin, "You slept over?" he pressed.

"Mmm!" Emma hummed a confirmation around a mouthful of fluffy pancake, swallowing, "Yeah. My tires were slashed, so your mom offered to let me stay."

His gaze flicked between them, but they gave no indication of anything else occurring between them. His mom sipped primly at her coffee. Emma dug into her meal with gusto. Nothing seemed to have changed, but he could feel it, a charge in the air, somehow simultaneously putting the two women at ease and increasing their tension. He was too young to fully comprehend that kind of tension, but he was no fool; he could sense it all the same. There was something about the way they looked at one another. He had never seen his mother quite so _comfortable_, and it threw him off. She still held herself erect, every movement containing a purpose, controlled. And yet…Her mouth was relaxed. Her fingers lingered upon her mug of coffee, savoring its emanated heat. Little things, but he noticed them nonetheless.

Suddenly, Emma's head perked up and she said, "Oh! I almost forgot! It's Thanksgiving this Thursday!"

At this, both Regina and Henry stiffened. Henry's eyes shot to his mother. She sat stock-still, jaw clenched. Her knife screeched painfully upon the plate and she inhaled sharply, face darkening. He could see those all too familiar walls rise once more, lofty and impenetrable.

Emma, however, only looked confused, "So are we still having dinner Thursday, or -?"

"I think," Regina interrupted sharply, "that would be unwise."

She offered no explanation, though. Abruptly she stood, murmuring something about needing more coffee, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Emma turned to Henry, "What's wrong with Thanksgiving?'

He hesitated before replying, the words coming slowly, hushed, "Grandmother always visits for Thanksgiving."

Emma took a moment to digest that information. For some reason she had never really thought of Regina as having parents. She couldn't think of Regina as a child. It were as though the Mayor had been spawned, perhaps hatched from an egg to emerge fully-fledged, a child of Leda, or perhaps grey-eyed Athene having burst from Zeus' brow, "And that's bad?" she asked.

Again, he hesitated, chewing thoughtfully to buy himself more time, "She and mom don't really _get along_."

Emma put down her silverware, leaning them on the edge of her plate, "Is she…_mean_?" she put specific emphasis on the word, raising her eyebrows as well.

Henry shrugged, "She isn't really nice."

"To you?"

"I don't know. Mom never leaves me alone in the same room with Grandmother when she comes to visit."

Leaning back in her chair, Emma looked contemplative. But then Regina returned and the topic was quickly dropped.

* * *

**Oh my glob, you guise! DRAMA BOMB! And here I thought I was going to write a short, sweet fic. Why does my muse always do this to me? I'll be all, "Wooohoo! Lesbiaaaans!" and my Muse just smiles and whispers in my ear, "Now…make it 100,000 words long." **

** Fuck, my muse is a heartless bitch. CURSE YOU, VILLAINOUS WENCH. **

** "black, bitter, and preferably free-trade" : a quote taken directly from "Archer." Krieger is fucking hilarious, and that whole show is entirely too quotable, if you ask me. Plus, I've seen it waaaaay too many times.**

**"a child of Leda" : in some versions of the myth Helen and Clytemnestra were twins, hatched from an egg after Zeus raped Leda in the form of a swan. Whether I'm likening Regina to Helen or Clytemnestra...well, I'll let y'all decide that ;P**

**"grey-eyed Athene" : again, in some versions of the myth Athena was said to have not been born, but instead burst from Zeus' head, fully formed, after he swallowed her mother, Metis. **


	18. Chapter 18

**I believe it was Lorelai Gilmore who mostly aptly put it, "It [my brain] is a whole bag of weird."**

** What better quote to start off another one of my oddball chapters?**

** Enjoy!**

** Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

Emma watched her yellow bug being pulled down the street by the tow truck, like a toddler woefully trundling behind its parent. She stood on the front steps of Regina's house with the Mayor herself not far behind her, lingering in the doorway, a _dira_ crouched upon the sacred threshold of her fortress, sheltered from the elements. Emma turned to her, looking hopeful. Regina had been prickly all morning, especially after the brief talk of her mother. As soon as breakfast had ended, she had all but ordered Henry back upstairs to finish his homework before he could earn a few sparse hours of time with the television.

"So…Can I get a ride home?" Emma wheedled, giving those pleading, puppy-dog eyes. A light drizzle fell from the sky, clouding the air with a transparent mist. It had settled in her hair, so that her blonde locks grew frizzy and even more unruly than ever.

But Regina met her with a stony gaze, "You can walk. Think of it as punishment for the hairbrush."

"Oh, come on! It's just a hairbrush!"

"Yes. A hairbrush I'll have to soak in boiling water, thanks to you."

"I seem to remember you rather liking my hair not too long ago. Gripping it, pulling it…"

Regina stiffened, but even as her eyes darkened, a light flush blossomed on her cheeks at the memory, "Do not push me, Miss Swan," her voice had lowered to a venomous hiss, "I already told you I don't do relationships. Don't overstep your boundaries, or I _will_ end this. Make no mistake."

The threat turned down the corners of Emma's mouth into a disconsolate sulk, "And what is this?" she snapped, unable to stem the sudden tide of anger, "What are we? Fuck-buddies? Friends with benefits?"

"Oh, my dear," Regina's smile in return was slow and curling, cruel and false, "that would require us to be friends."

Emma seethed, "And I already told you I want no part in a relationship that purely revolves around sex."

"Then what _do_ you want?" Regina snarled, stepping closer, jaw clenching.

At this, Emma's mouth worked, but no sound came.

Regina sniffed, dark eyes flicked across Emma's person and back up again, arrogant and dismissive, "I thought as much." She turned to return to the house, to hide behind her walls, barricaded, "You already know what I want. Come back when you've figured out what _you_ want. Until then, I'm afraid you'll just be met with disappointment."

She shut the door, leaving Emma grinding her teeth. Stuffing her hands in her pocket, Emma marched away, not looking back.

* * *

"You know," Mary Margaret's voice held a slight drawl, and indication of her often overlooked wit, "when I said that you should learn to tolerate the Mayor, I didn't mean that you should jump into the sack with her at your nearest convenience."

The two sat together at the dining room table, sharing dinner. Night had fallen across the sky outside. Emma had trudged into the house hours ago, soaked through from the drizzling rain, looking furious and more than a touch brooding. After she had wordlessly stomped upstairs for a long hot bath, Mary Margaret had marked the book she had been enjoying with her seemingly perpetual cup of tea, curled upon the couch beneath a blanket, and started on a hot meal for the two of them.

Emma snorted, "I wish I'd just jumped into bed with her. Instead I've –" but she clamped her mouth shut and glared down at her food, stabbing a piece of chicken with a savagery the poultry really didn't merit. The bath had done little to temper her foul mood.

For a moment, Mary Margaret looked puzzled, but then her eyes widened and she gasped, "Emma! You didn't!"

"Shut up," the sheriff growled at the meat speared on her fork, "Shut up. No. I haven't."

"You have, haven't you?" Mary Margaret shook her head sagely, cutting her Brussels sprouts into neat quarters, "You've fallen for her."

"No. Nope. Haven't. Won't. Ever," Emma mumbled her abject denial around a mouthful of buttery chicken.

"You have. And you've fallen hard," Mary Margaret sighed to herself, "I should have seen this coming."

Emma nearly chocked, "What's that supposed to mean?!"

"Ruby always joked about your sexual chemistry, but I shrugged it off. I figured if Regina could have chemistry with a door or a spoon, then she could certainly have chemistry with anyone. But," the school teacher's eyebrows lifted and she gave Emma a sad, knowing look, "you fell for her."

"I keep telling you: I _haven't_ –!"

But Mary Margaret continued as though Emma hadn't tried to interject, "Actually, it's kind of perfect, now that I think about it."

Emma did choke upon a Brussels sprout at that, and while she wheezed in the background, thumping her chest with her fist, Mary Margaret droned on contemplatively to herself, thoughts spoken aloud and punctuated by quiet nods, "I may not like it very much – I mean, the thought of you two _together_ together is just _squick. _Ew. Just no. But this might work out for the best. You two can take out your 'frustrations' through a vaguely constructive means, and Henry can have two mothers in a somewhat stable relationship. That is, of course, provided you two work out your differences and actually have a stable relationship. But, heck! Regina might even loosen up a bit! And I won't have to meet with her alone for parent-teacher conferences," she added with a dark mutter, shuddering, "Or, as I lovingly refer to them: bi-annual torture sessions."

"Staaaahp!" Emma gasped, wind-pipe cleared at last, "First of all, Regina made it abundantly clear she doesn't want a relationship. Secondly," she brandished a reproachful finger across the table, "I don't know if I can be in a stable relationship with her at all. I hardly even know her!"

"Well," never one to back down from an inquisitive mind, Mary Margaret perked up, "what do you want to know?"

Emma hadn't been expecting that, "Oh," she fumbled, "Hmm. For starters? Her family, I guess. I mean, she completely froze up at the mention of her mother this morning."

Mary Margaret grew very still.

"What? Did you see a ghost?" Emma peeked over her shoulder playfully, "Is her mother really that bad?"

Taking a careful sip of water, Mary Margaret made a small noise in the back of her throat, "She's…Hmm."

"How very informative," the sheriff rolled her eyes.

Mary Margaret hesitated for a moment, setting her glass down, "Regina hails from a very old New England family," she began slowly, "Now, what I know is mostly rumor, but the Mills family used to be immensely wealthy and powerful – always with their hands in politics. I think one of them was a Captain of Industry or Robber Baron or something, and owned a large railroad."

"Please don't tell me Regina's family had a Confederate general in the civil war or something," Emma groaned. She could just imagine an oils portrait of great-great-great granddaddy Mills in his stately grey regalia above the fireplace of an enormous Southern plantation.

But Mary Margaret blinked at her, "No, no! They've always been in New England, I think. They fought _against_ the Confederates and were essential to the Northern supply train during the war."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Emma muttered, "I don't know if that's better or worse."

Mary Margaret waved her away, "Anyway," she continued, frowning at a spot on the wall, trying to recall every vague detail, "All fortunes meet their end. The family lost its money to gambling and corruption and a few unwise investments. They were incredibly poor for years. Until Cora."

"The way Regina looked when her mother was mentioned…" Emma mused darkly, "This Cora must be a piece of work."

A humorless laugh left Mary Margaret, "You could say that. From what I hear, Cora married young. It was an arranged marriage to a somewhat better-off family financially, but with only a marginally less impressive pedigree. He died a while back. Heart attack, I think," she chewed thoughtfully, tapping her fork lightly against the edge of her plate, "Cora was the ambitious one. She made it her mission to restore the family wealth. At any cost."

"Let me guess," Emma mumbled around a bite before swallowing, "The Mafia?"

Surprisingly, Mary Margaret shrugged, "I have no idea. But she certainly accomplished what she set out to do. She has a few senators and CEOs in her pocket. For all I know, she just plays the stock-market, and visits fancy art galleries, and funds charity events, filthy rich, buying more political and business ties as she goes."

"But if Cora is so powerful and all that, then why is Regina _here_?" Emma scowled, "You'd think Regina would have been groomed to become the next Eleanor Roosevelt or something."

"Now _that_," Mary Margaret said, "is a question for Regina."

"Oh, yeah. That'll blow over well," Emma drawled, sarcastic, "Regina! Why aren't you First Lady and manipulating executive power through your impotent Presidential husband?"

With a sigh, Emma pushed her plate away and sat back in her chair, finished with her meal. Mary Margaret lifted an eyebrow, "Finish your Brussels sprouts, Emma," she gestured with her knife at Emma's plate, empty but for a few lonely greens.

"You mean your gustatory assassins?" Emma muttered, "Damn things nearly killed me."

"You should just learn to chew your food more," Mary Margaret chided, "Honestly, you choke on food more than any other person I know. And I teach kids that still like to stuff peanuts up their nose because they think it's funny."

Emma gaped, "I -!" she spluttered indignantly, "My chewing habits are just fine, thank you very much!"

"That's nice, dear. But you still have to eat your Brussels sprouts."

Emma grumbled sullenly to herself and pushed the vegetables around her plate until Mary Margaret said warningly, "Emma…"

"What are you, my mother?" she snapped in reply.

Mary Margaret directed a stern glare in her direction, setting her cutlery down in a brook-no-nonsense fashion.

Emma ate her Brussels sprouts.

* * *

**"Dira" : from **_**dirae**_** or **_**Furiae**_**, Roman names for the Furies. They were also known as the Eumenides or the Erinyes. In other words: Regina is looking like the HBIC that she is…if a bit scary and menacing as well. **

**Generally, I don't like to characterize Emma as a kid too much. In this fic, I make her a bit petulant and childish for comedic effect, while trying to stay true to her strong sense of fortitude. On the other hand, Regina, while in some respects far more adult than Emma, can herself be quite childish, particularly when she is denied something she wants; she'll go to great lengths to get that something in a way that closely resembles a toddler throwing a temper-tantrum. **

** The reason why I mention this is because I hope Emma's comedic child-like behavior doesn't put anyone off. But I'd like to ask: do y'all think I balance that well enough? I'm trying to keep this fic on the light-hearted and humorous side, since I've often been accused of solely writing angsty fics with prose that runs into the purple – this short, sweet style is new for me, an experiment, if you will.**

** Trust me, you don't want to see some of the Ciceronian shit I pull in my novels and short-stories. There's a unique sense of satisfaction at being able to pull off a page long sentence and still have it be perfectly grammatically correct.**

** For the record, while I'll proudly bear the title "grammar Nazi," I prefer the term "grammar enthusiast," or perhaps "grammar party-goer." Because grammar should involve balloons and confetti and glitter. LOTS of glitter. Think 80s sparkle-dress, complete with lots of thigh showing. Because grammar is funky and sexy like that.**

** Kore out!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Sorry for the delay. I'm in the last few weeks of term. And the work load is really starting to get to me. It doesn't help that lately, whenever I've gotten the urge to write, it's been for a little epyllion I'm constructing on the side – one of my many pet-projects.**

** And holy shit I just realised that Emma is basically Natsuki from Mai-HIME. At least…the way I portrayed Nastuki in my fic – orphan issues, badassery, and all. The whole fucking package. **

** I must have a thing for bad girls with a grumpy/brooding streak. It certainly explains my choice in SOs… (I LOVE YOU, DEAR, PLEASE DON'T KILL ME).**

** Enjoy!**

** Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

A knock sounded at the door.

Puzzled, Regina strode from her office. The day was late. She and Henry had just finished dinner. Alone. Miss Swan was not scheduled to dine with them today, yet some small part of Regina had half expected her to show up unannounced regardless.

It seemed she had deigned to show up now and make Regina wait. How very much like her. Yet Regina couldn't find it in herself to be truly angry. She had been expecting something from Emma for a few days now. A call. A text. A home visit. Or perhaps even a run-in at Granny's. But the sheriff had remained away for the time being, sorting out her affairs, and the loss of her presence had started to fray Regina's self-discipline.

Much as she hated to admit it, Regina liked having Emma around.

Mildly irritated, yet strangely looking forward to the confrontation, Regina yanked the front door open, a sharp rebuke on her tongue.

"Hello, darling."

The blood ran cold in her veins. Regina stared, stunned, "Hello, mother," came the automatic response, her voice sounding foreign and distant to her own ears, as though shrieked across the raging Hellespont to a drowning lover, "You're here a day early."

Cora tilted her head slightly to better regard her daughter, and Regina felt herself stiffen. Her mother held herself poised, her gaze unfaltering, wrapped in a mink coat to ward off the cold. Two men flanked her, dressed in dark suits, eyes shrouded behind black glasses, "Business in Shanghai did not last as long as expected," Cora explained, "I was able to catch an early flight. Besides," she smiled, sending an imperceptible shiver down Regina's spine, "I wanted to spend time with my daughter and grandson.

Now, are you going to let me in?"

Regina stood back to grant her entry. Cora waved a hand at the two men behind her before sweeping by her daughter. The men promptly followed, bearing her luggage. Immediately they headed towards the guest bedroom on the ground floor where Cora always stayed during her visits. Regina had just shut the door when Cora spoke.

"The place is looking a bit shabby, darling," she announced, surveying the foyer with a critical eye, "You should fire your maids. I know of an excellent agency you could use to hire new ones."

Then her gaze fell upon the orchids from Emma upon a small table to the right. They were beginning to wilt, their pale petals crinkled, but Regina hadn't had the heart to throw them away. Cora made a noise in the back of her throat like a disgusted cat, "What on earth possessed you to buy _those_? They clash terribly with the décor."

Regina had to stifle the urge to reach out and stop her mother from walking over to the table, scooping up the orchids and carrying them into the kitchen. Instead, her hands clenched into fists. She stiffened, nostrils flaring, as she followed her mother into the kitchen, where Cora unceremoniously dumped the flowers into the garbage. The lid of the steel-brushed trash can slammed shut like a death knell.

The two muscled lackeys reappeared and wordlessly stripped Cora of her mink coat and gloves. All the while Cora stood there, shoulders proudly thrown back, looking as though she owned the very land she walked.

Tearing herself from the sight, Regina made her way to the kettle in order to make a pot of tea. Upon entering this world through the curse, Regina had unwittingly created an entire history of herself, her family, this town, and even its many inhabitants – proof of the raw depth and breadth of the curse's very nature. How her mother had been pulled through, she did not know. Perhaps Cora had been an inkling in the back of her mind, scratching at the walls, when she had enacted the curse.

She never could seem to rid herself of this woman, no matter how hard she tried. Still it was a small blessing that Cora retained none of her memories of the other world. Her domineering personality she had kept, though, much to Regina's dismay.

The lackeys vanished and did not return, leaving the two alone, mother and daughter – smoky glass standing between them, casting shadowy reflections.

Her mother's presence in this world had proven to be a constant source of unease. On account of Cora's lack of memories, Regina had been able to manoeuvre her, but it was like manipulating a venomous snake – she tenuously prodded with a long stick, and its powerfully muscled body twisted and contorted, wrapping around the pole and constricting, fangs dripping with lethality and blindly seeking a target. Ever wary, Regina had successfully manipulated the situation so that Cora only came to visit once every year, but she still dreaded these days almost as much as she dreaded the curse breaking.

"Where's my grandson?" Cora questioned imperiously.

At this, Regina bristled, a surge of maternal protectiveness washing over her, "He's reading upstairs."

"I'd like to see him."

Regina moved to block the doorway, though Cora had not moved, fixing her mother with a hard stare, "It's his bedtime soon. I'm afraid you'll have to wait until tomorrow."

The two endured a short staring match, a silent contest of wills. At last, Cora ended it with a small laugh, "Really, darling, you needn't get so defensive. I care for him, just as I do for you."

"Yes. That's what I'm afraid of."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Regina wished she could grab them from the air and lock them away again.

Cora, however, seemed completely unaffected. If anything, she looked somewhat smug. She advanced, sliding forward, dark gaze riveting Regina in place, nailing her feet to the ground, "I know we've had out differences in the past," her words slipped from her lips, all honey laced with poison, "But I love you, Regina." Her eyes glittered in a mocking parody of sincerity.

Regina had to swallow the slick acidity of bile and suppress the urge to lash out.

She wanted to wrap her hands around Cora's throat until her face grew mottled and her limbs thrashed.

She wanted to seize a nearby butcher's knife and carve Cora from sternum to navel, entrails splashing to the floor and steaming there.

She wanted to drive the blade home again and again into the foul cavern of Cora's chest, until they both swam in a puddle of black blood, and clinging flesh peeled back from the knife's silvery edge.

Instead she trembled, frozen.

Another knock at the door saved her.

* * *

Shoulders squared, Emma drew in a deep breath and knocked on the front door. In the few days she had spent apart from Regina, she had mulled over the situation. It had been a constant distraction, nagging at the back of her mind at all times like an itch. Being pushed aside remained too familiar a sensation; it dredged up old memories, unsavoury. Of having to put up with being the "other child" in an otherwise united family. Of having to bow and scrape to her so-called "siblings." Of being traded back into the foster care system like a broken piece of furniture.

When the door opened, she immediately launched into the little speech she had prepared on the drive over, "I've given it a lot of thought and I know what I want."

Regina tried cutting her off, "Miss Swan –"

But Emma forged on, resolute, not noticing Regina's harried appearance, "You don't get to toss me aside. I want more than that. And I know you want more too. Oh, I know you 'don't do relationships,' but we can make this work. You came to me, remember? You _want_ me around, or you wouldn't have proposed the dinners, or let me in your bed."

"Now isn't the time –" Regina protested, voice lowered to a hiss.

"And when _is_ the time? When you choose? I'm a part of this too, and I say we work this out now," Emma stepped forward into the doorway, teetering upon the liminal line, "Don't push me away, Regina. We have something. I know you feel it too, though you hide it well."

Footsteps clicked from within the house. Regina stiffened. A woman appeared behind her in the vestibule, "Is there a problem?" she asked calmly.

Startled, Emma felt some of her previous vim drain out of her, "Oh, I'm…I didn't know Regina had company."

"Yes. Miss Swan was just leaving," Regina said pointedly.

Cora drew closer and Regina recoiled, moving around her presence as if being too near would spread a disease to her skin, filling her with a webbed rot.

While Regina's gaze burned black, all fire and storm and vitriol, Cora had eyes like a lizard's. It were as though her face had two halves: the lower half moved normally and was even animated with its wide range of expressions, but the top half remained stationary, unblinking, mesmerizing, eyes hard and glossy as dark stones, shards of shale plucked from dried river beds.

"You must be Regina's mother. I'm Emma Swan, the sheriff," introducing herself, Emma stuck her hand out in an automatic gesture.

Emma felt her hackles rise when Cora, looking down at the offered hand, smiled, a smile with a warmth that never cross the border northward, leaving her gaze icy, "How quaint," she murmured, her unsettling gaze moving back up, travelling over Emma's body, making her feel ill at ease, "Will you be joining us for Thanksgiving?"

"No!" Regina interrupted firmly before Emma could answer. Realizing how panicked she had sounded, she cleared her throat and proceeded more calmly, "Miss Swan already has plans for Thanksgiving. Don't you?" She glared to drive her message home.

"Actually, I don't," Emma returned Cora's smile, headlong into the fray.

"Well, then! Regina," she turned to her daughter, who shifted under her gaze, "why don't you invite your _friend_ to dine with us? Being alone – I can think of no worse fate. Especially on the holidays."

Regina looked like she had swallowed a lemon whole, "Miss Swan," she grate out through clenched teeth, "Would you be so kind to join us for Thanksgiving this Thursday?"

Emma gave a thin-lipped smile, never daring to take her eyes off Cora, "It would be my pleasure."

* * *

**"…raging Hellespont to a drowned lover." = that right there be a Hero and Leander reference. A small little blip in Greek mythology, really. The first time I read it was this semester in Vergil's **_**Georgics**_**. (And it aaaaallll comes back to Vergil. Yet again.)**

** Time for an etymological rant. Eeexcceelllllent….**

** In an earlier chapter I briefly touched upon the word **_**imperium**_**. And in this chapter, I used "imperiously" with reference to Cora. It struck me, while I wrote in this little café down the street from my school, that the word "imperious" has a great deal more to it than I'd ever really gave it credit for. I mean, I always instinctively knew that it means "haughty…but also authoritative," and the latter is the true weight behind the word.**

** If we can recall, **_**imperium**_** means "command/authority (especially military) with regard to sovereignty." An emperor, then, is someone with sovereign military might over a set of provinces or principalities – which is how he differs from a king. A king rules over a single state or polity, while an emperor has sovereignty over a vast patchwork quilt of such states. Even the word "prince" is derived from **_**princeps**_**, meaning "first man" or "first citizen," which was the official title of the emperor during the early years of the Roman Empire – it wasn't until Diocletian in the 3****rd**** century that the stigma around the title **_**rex**_** (king) began to finally fade; Diocletian ran around demanding to be called **_**dominus**_** (lord). Such autocratic behavior would have gotten an emperor killed previously (HAHA! Fuck you, Domitian!).**

** Ahem. I am going somewhere with this, I swear.**

** Now, I considered using "regal" in reference to Cora, but that adjective is – as we know – pretty much owned by Regina in this fandom. But when put inside "imperious," regal becomes smaller. Not to mention**** the inherent militance of **_**imperium**_**. When I used it for Cora, I immediately thought, "This is one HBIC who will **_**fuck you up."**_

** Regina is pretty damn lethal herself, but Cora is in a whole other league.**

** All that from one little word. CLASSICS, BITCHES.**

** KORE, OUT. **


	20. Chapter 20

**Hey, guys!**

**Sorry for the wait. As I said in the last chapter, it's the last week of class, which means I'm incredibly busy. Not to mention the holidays are fast approaching. And I'm only home for 2 weeks, then I'm back in an airplane on my way to sunny New Zealand. **

**That's right. New Zealand. Be jealous.**

**Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

"Ruby, get the door!"

"One sec!"

"Ruby, my hands are slipping!"

"I said _one sec!_"

"Ruuuuby!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

Ruby stood at the stove, juggling four different things at once One hand stirred; another shuffled a frying pan; between elbow and hip was suspended a mixing bowl; with a flip of her wrist, she switched two of the pans, setting one on the low back-burner and bringing the other to the fore. Meanwhile, Granny was shooing her with a towel, trying to get at the oven by her knees.

"Watch over this," she pointed to the stovetop. Granny merely grunted and waved her away.

Setting the bowl down, Ruby made a dash to the front door. Mary Margaret stood in the cold outside, arms laden with stacks of food in rectangular containers that rose to her eyes. When Ruby unlocked the door and opened it, Mary Margaret stumbled inside and all but dropped the food in her arms onto the nearest table. She then collapsed into one of the booths.

"Oh, god," she groaned, "Oh, dear, sweet, baby Jesus. My arms. They buuuuurn."

Ruby leaned over the back of the booth, "Here, let me help you with that," and she began lightly pinching at Mary Margaret's biceps and shoulders.

"Oww ow!" Mary Margaret flailed weakly, face screwing up, "Evil woman!" One of her hands scrambled for a salt-shaker on the table, and she held it out before her like a protective talisman, "Begone, demon!"

Ruby's chuckles were cut short at a yell from Granny in the nearby kitchen, "Ruby! Your gravy!"

"Oh, shit!" Ruby rushed to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "Come on, Mm! Thanksgiving dinner won't cook itself!"

With a faint whimper, Mary Margaret rose to her feet and began carting her load of food over to the bar counter, one by one. In the kitchen Granny was adding the final finishing touches to the turkey, its skin a rich golden-brown, crisp yet tender and succulent on the inside, stuffed with all manner of spiced goodness. Ruby on the other hand was thickening the gravy with flour, sprinkling it into the pot as she stirred briskly with a whisk, breaking up any white clumps.

"Who else is coming?" Mary Margaret asked as she spaced the containers evenly upon the counter, peeling back the aluminum coverings to release gouts of steam from the heaping array of vegetables she had prepared earlier just that afternoon.

"Leroy, Archie, the Nolans…" Ruby listed off. She frowned and turned to Granny, "Is that it?"

"Don't forget Ava, Nicholas, and Mr. Tillman," Granny added without looking up from the turkey.

"Oh, yeah! And them."

"Good turnout!" Mary Margaret hummed appreciatively, "Do you think we'll have enough food?"

Ruby snorted, "You ask that every year. And every year we still all end up brining home more leftovers than we know what to do with."

"Hey!" Mary Margaret jabbed a finger in Ruby's direction, "Leftovers are a must! Thanksgiving isn't complete unless you have cold turkey, cranberry, and stuffing sandwiches the day after! It is law!"

"We have enough food to feed a small army!" Ruby gestured with a broad sweep of her arm at the expanse of food they had amassed, "A small, hungry army."

The two would have continued with their customary bickering had they not been interrupted by the door opening, heralded by the tinkling of a bell. Mary Margaret turned, "Oh! Emma, what're you doing here?"

Ruby peeked out, a quizzical scowl on her face, "Emma's here? I thought she was supposed to be at the Mayor's?"

Emma rolled her eyes at the comments, proceeding inside, "I'm on my way there now. I just wanted to swing by here first and see how things are going."

"Oh, the usual," Ruby replied nonchalantly, ladling gravy into a large porcelain boat, "Granny won't let anyone near the turkey. MM is complaining about there not being enough food. We'll fight about dishes after dinner, but I'll be the one who ends up doing them all."

"At least I don't steal the oysters before anyone else can have them!" Mary Margaret shot back.

But Ruby just shrugged, smirking, "You snooze, you lose."

"It's called _consideration_."

"It's called _survival of the fittest_."

Emma watched their friendly banter with a small smile. Making her way into the kitchen, she sidled up next to Granny, "Do they always do this?" she asked.

"Every damn year," Granny grumbled. She raised her voice and glared sternly over her glasses at them, "They should just get married already!"

"Nobody asked you," Ruby snapped.

"Don't you sass me, girl!"

While Granny was occupied, Emma, feeling exceptionally daring, reached out and snagged a generous strip of crispy skin from the turkey. She was stuffing the evidence into her mouth, when Ruby gasped and pointed, "She's defiling the turkey, Gran!"

"Tattle-tale!" Emma accused.

Quick as lightning, Granny rounded upon Emma, spectacles flashing dangerously, "Back away from the bird!"

From the other room, Mary Margaret gasped loudly, "Emma, did you touch the turkey?!"

"Me?" Emma dodged Granny's whipping towel and fled from the kitchen, grinning, "I'm pure as the driven snow!"

"Out, out!" Granny roared, shooing her away with a sharp look.

"Nobody touches the turkey but Eugenia," Mary Margaret tsked, shaking her head in faux disappointment.

Emma shrugged with an impish smile, "Laws are made to be broken."

"Well spoken, _sheriff_," Ruby retorted playfully.

"Watch your tone, _citizen_," Emma growled, "I've got my cuffs on me."

"Ooooh! Dirty!"

"Children," Granny interrupted sternly, "Stop with the bickering and set up the tables, or you're going into the time-out corner."

Mary Margaret, grinning and shaking her head, moved to start pushing tables together in order to form a single long platform, "Shouldn't you get going?" she asked Emma.

Emma sighed, "Yeah. I just –" She hesitated, shrugging weakly, the merriment draining from her, making her shoulders sag.

Smiling in sympathetic understanding, Mary Margaret murmured, stepping forward to lay a brief yet comforting hand on Emma's shoulder, "I know. You'll be fine. Just try to have a good time."

At that, Emma snorted, "Yeah. Right." Yet she steeled herself nevertheless and headed for the door, "Thanks, though. I needed this." She gestured vaguely to the bright diner, filled with homey smells, delicious aromas, and genuine cheer.

"Go get 'em, tiger!" Ruby called out in parting as Emma made to leave.

* * *

Even with only three people, the large kitchen at the Mills' household felt crowded. The air was thick with unspoken tension. Cora sat upon one of the barstools as though it were a throne, her glass of red wine a ruby scepter. Henry sat in the furthest barstool from her as possible, kept under Regina's watchful eye. He had been given the task of prepping the artichokes in order to give direction to his young and restless energy. Guiding a pair of blunt scissors with his fingers, he snipped the barbed ends of the artichoke leaves, little green triangles spinning off into a plastic bag upon the counter in front of him. Regina watched Cora like a hawk while she cooked, peeling and quartering red potatoes to be roasted with garlic, and rosemary, and truffle salt. In the oven, the turkey – filled with a sweet apple-based stuffing – had perhaps another thirty minutes until it was finally ready. In a white wicker basket were heaps of focaccia, made not long ago.

The atmosphere was charged yet somehow static.

When the expected knock sounded at the door, Regina ordered, "Henry, get the door, please."

It was the most they'd spoken in the last twenty minutes.

Henry hopped down from his seat and trotted to the front door, and Cora, sipping at her wine, smirked at her daughter over the glass bowl. Regina refused to meet her gaze.

Henry opened the front door, "Hey, Emma!" he greeted, relieved that she had at last arrived.

"Hey, kid," she offered a half-hearted smile.

"We're all in the kitchen," he jerked his head in that direction, closing the door behind Emma as she stepped inside.

"Great," she muttered, shrugging out of her coat and moving to hang it in the nearby closet.

Henry made as though to return to the kitchen, but before he could go, Emma grabbed his arm, "Wait a minute," her voice lowered and she pulled Henry with her towards the closet, eyes darting to the kitchen. She leaned down and whispered, "I wanted to talk to you about Operation Cobra."

Furrows appeared on his brow and he replied slowly, "I don't think…"

But Emma shook her head, "Not against your mom. Against Cora."

He blinked, thoughtful, "Alright. What do you want me to do?" An eager shine entered his eyes.

"Well, here's the plan…"

* * *

**If you can't tell, I like to cook. Truffle salt is one of the great inventions of mankind. If you disagree, you're wrong. And get out of my kitchen. Just get out. **

** Regina's dinner is usually what I have for Thanksgiving, actually. Brined turkey, potatoes, homemade focaccia, etc. Although the apple stuffing I've never actually done with a turkey…only with a chicken. You butterfly a chicken and slather it with oil and thyme and rosemary and bay leaves and pepper, then you lay it over a cored and sliced apple, breast up, and then you bake it. **

** Oh, god. I'm drooling just at the thought. HNNNNNGF. Food porn. The best kind of porn.**

**-Kore**


	21. Chapter 21

**Alright, alright. I'm back. And after this, I only have 2 more chapters left. Thereabouts. I know how I want to end this story, and I have the next chapter half written, sooo….we're pretty close. Just hang in there.**

** As for the wait…Meh. Life. You know how it goes. **

** Anywho, enjoy!**

** Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

Emma could remember dinners with Regina before, dinners in this very house, but never had dinners – even the first initial awkward ones, the ones where Regina had been waspish and unapproachable – been quite so inimical.

With a sickening feeling Emma had watched Cora carve up the turkey. The carving knife had slid easily into crisp brown skin, pulling back to reveal meat colourless as a paling shade. And with a fork – twin-tined, branching and elegant – she peeled the flesh away. Emma had stared at the slab of turkey on her plate, suddenly bereft of an appetite. She had eaten anyway, but the food went down like ash.

The table remained near silent, apart from the noise of their knives scraping along creamy china. A strip of rich red cloth ran down the center of the table in a long length, bearing two blanched candles on silver stems. Their tips burned with droplets of flame that stretched to the ceiling upon clipped smoky stems.

Near the middle of their repast there occurred a break in the meal.

"I don't feel so good," Henry groaned, putting down his utensils.

Instantly Regina's head whipped up from her plate, "What's wrong?" She rose from her chair and came around the table to his side, brushing back his bangs, so that she could feel his brow with the back of her hand.

He shook his head, arms wrapped around his abdomen, "My stomach," he mumbled.

"Do you want some Tums? Ginger Ale?" Regina suggested.

"Oh, he'll be fine," Cora stated in the background, clearly unimpressed with Henry's display.

Before Regina could round on her mother and deliver a scathing remark though, Henry interrupted, "No. Thanks. But I'm going to just lie down for a bit."

Lips pressed into a thin line, Regina nodded, and Henry staggered off to his room.

Regina took her place at the table at Cora's right hand once more and the meal continued. Spearing a potato on her fork and knifing a few vegetables atop, Emma crammed the fork into her mouth. She chewed contemplatively, regarding the others' expressions out of the corner of her eye. Regina looked somewhat worried, though she masked her emotions with her mother around. On the other hand, Cora appeared completely indifferent, eating with a hauteur an Empress would envy.

A buzzing sound abruptly filled the air.

Cora and Regina turned to stare at Emma, who had frozen where she sat.

"Sorry," she said, digging the cellphone from her pocket and checking who was calling, "One sec, I'm just going to pop upstairs to take this call. Don't hold up for me."

She rose and walked from the dining room, flipping her phone open and greeting with a perfunctory, "Yeah?"

Henry waved energetically at her from behind the banister on the second floor, home phone in hand, then retreated into his room.

"No, it's not a problem. We can talk now," Emma said. Checking behind her to make sure she wasn't seen or followed, Emma climbed the stairs and slipped into his room, closing the door softly behind her.

"Alright, what do you got for me?" She flipped her phone shut and slipped it back into the pocket of her jeans.

In response, Henry simply hoisted a thin silver laptop onto his bed.

Emma cocked her head, "Won't it be password protected?"

He grinned, opening the lid, "Not a problem."

Emma blinked in surprise. Peering over his shoulder as he hacked in, she said, "So, hey. When you conquer the planet with that massive brain of yours, can I be part of your new world order?"

"Don't worry," he assured her, "You're definitely in my top ten list of administrative overlords."

"Top 10?" Emma asked, "Who's number one?"

"Pongo, of course," Henry deadpanned.

Emma rolled her eyes, "Of course. Naturally. How did I not guess?" she replied dryly.

"Here you go," he handed her the now unlocked computer with a flourish of his hand, "All ready for some good old fashioned dirt digging."

Emma took the laptop, "Thanks, kid," she ruffled his hair, "I owe you big time."

Henry's mouth adopted a pout, "Yeah you do. I'm missing out on dessert!"

"I'll save you a slice of whatever we're having."

"Harrumph."

* * *

Dinner had run into the late evening. Even without Henry, dessert had been served – an apple and rhubarb crumble, freshly baked and dusted with a fine layer of powdered sugar, served with a side of clotted cream, all of which Emma had devoured with her usual gusto, while Regina and Cora carefully dissected each mouthful with skillful forks.

They had moved to the library in order to enjoy a glass of wine or hard cider, but three minutes into this venture, and Regina had vanished into the kitchen, saying something about dirty dishes. At any other time Emma would have followed, but she stayed, leaving herself and Cora alone together in the warm, wood-panelled study.

A fire crackled in the fireplace, lighting the room with a flickering glow.

Cora smiled and the firelight reflected from the hard shiny surface of her eyes, unblinking, "So, Miss Swan, how long have you been sleeping with my daughter?"

Unfazed, Emma drank from the cut crystal glass in her hand, "Mmm," she made an appreciative noise, lifting the glass to see light filter through its pale golden contents, "This really is excellent cider, don't you agree?"

Cora chuckled, "You really don't fathom the depth of your mistake, do you?"

"No, I think that's reserved for you," Emma's voice suddenly carried far more weight, a solemnity and an intensity. She leaned forward in her seat, elbows on her knees, feet planted inelegantly yet firmly apart, "You see, you're going to pack your bags and leave tomorrow morning. You can keep your yearly Thanksgiving visits, but you're not going to in any way contact Regina, or Henry for that matter. And you're going to do all of this without a word of complaint."

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Cora threw her head back and laughed, "Oh, I can see why my daughter likes you! Regina always did have a soft spot for lost causes and poor investments."

"She must get that from her mother."

Cora's gaze flashed darkly at that remark, "What makes you think I'll do anything you say? Hmm?" Her words were a venomous hiss.

Smiling, Emma leaned back, twirling the glass between her fingers, so that the crystal glimmered in a multi-faceted dazzle, "I love technology. I love how invulnerable people sometimes thinks it is. It's amazing the information one can glean from computers. And laptops."

All the colour drained from Cora's face.

Emma continued seamlessly, "Judging by your reaction, you understand what it is I'm implying. So, unless you want certain information leaked to _unwanted_ parties, then I suggest you take my advice."

"I'll ruin you," Cora snarled, teeth bared, all manner of civility gone, and in its stead a feral furor.

"Perhaps," Emma drained her glass, "But not before I ruin you."

She stood and gestured to Cora's empty tumbler, "Refill?"

* * *

**The whole Pongo thing? Yeah. I wrote that for you, Tumblr crowd. Enjoy that.**

** As for everyone else, let's just say that Tumblr had a small obsession with Pongo for a wee while, and leave it at that.**

** And while writing this chapter, I was trying to recall if there was a name for those two-pronged forks used to serve meat. I looked it up and apparently they're just called "Serving Forks," which I thought was a great disappointment. I wanted a fancy Italian name, dammit! So, I looked up different types of forks, and discovered the word "tine," another work for "prong." The poet in me positively cooed at the idea of the word "two-tined," so I had to work it into the story somehow. **

** There you go. My process, ladies and gents. **

**Me like word. Make sentence. Sentence pretty. Me happy. **

**Yeah, that's pretty much it.**

** Oh! And apparently "tine" can also be used to describe mountain peaks – a famous example being in Lord of the Rings: "Silvertine." Now we know. Or maybe you knew already, and I'm just retarded. All things are possible. **

** Ciao!**

** -Kore**


	22. Chapter 22

**Back again!**

** And you probably though I was going to be another two months. HA! Tricked you! **

** Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

"I don't understand."

"Well, it's very simple, dear," Cora replied in a patronizing tone to her daughter, as her two hulking menservants carried her baggage from the house to her waiting car – a sleek, black, German vehicle with a muzzle like a bear's and a growl like a lion's, "I have urgent business to attend to in Shanghai. Can't wait, I'm afraid. Dinner really was lovely, though."

While she spoke, she strode towards the front door with a singular purpose, fixing her gloves and straightening her fur coat to ward off the New England chill. Meanwhile Regina trailed after her, looking puzzled yet wary.

Emma strode from the kitchen then, accompanied by the wafting seductive scent of freshly brewed coffee, "Leaving so soon?" she asked, approaching with outstretched hands, "But I was just beginning to enjoy your company!"

Cora's answering glare could have stripped the bark from trees, "Yes, what a pity," she managed through gritted teeth before starting to descend to the pavement leading to her car.

Moving forward to stand next to Regina on the top step outside the mansion, Emma said cheerfully, "I look forward to seeing you again next year!"

At this Cora shot a withering scowl over her shoulder, taking in the sight of the two of them together – the Mayor in her sharp pencil skirt and her matching grey blazer, and the Sheriff still looking tousled from a night of restful sleep. She gave a derisive sniff and muttered acridly beneath her breath, "A match made in heaven. Or – more appropriately – _hell_."

And then she was stalking away through the foggy morning, menace in her step. One of her cronies held the door open for her, and the other climbed into the driver's seat. Soon, the car had pulled away and was fading into the mist, red lights like devil's eyes peering back through the murk.

Immediately Regina rounded on Emma, arms crossed, "Alright. How did you do it?"

"Do what?" Emma asked, innocence embodied.

"Don't play coy with me, Miss Swan. I know you had something to do with this."

"Oh, so it's back to 'Miss Swan' now, is it?"

Regina's dark eyes narrowed, "You know what I – Stop evading the question!"

Emma frowned in faux confusion, "There was a question?"

"Yes!" Regina was growing frustrated now, "About my mother!"

"Oh! Oh, I see! Yes, I'm sure that coat was real sable, now that I think about it…"

"You—what?"

Emma clicked her tongue, a disapproving _tut_, "Don't tell me you didn't notice the coat! Hell, it was probably worth more than my car!"

"I'm sure there are many things in this world worth more than your car."

"Though not all, like sable, come from Russia." Then Emma was turning to head back into the house, "Do you want a cup of coffee?" She jerked her thumb towards the door to emphasize the direction in which she was heading, all the while continuing to wander into the house.

But Regina was not so easily avoided. She stormed after Emma with a gaze like thunder, "You're not escaping me _that_ easily, Miss Swan! I know your game!"

"You mean Risk? I love Risk."

"No!" Regina snapped, following her into the kitchen, "Your 'Distract-Regina-With-Random-Nonsense-Until-She-Forgets-Her-Original-Question' game."

An impish grin spread across Emma's face while she grabbed two mugs from a nearby cabinet and filled them with fresh coffee, "Well, you have to admit that I'm quite good at that game. And at Risk. Which, by the way, have you played?"

With a wave, Regina brushed the question away, "Another time, we'll play. For now I want answers."

Emma heaved a dramatic sigh, "I knew one day it would come to this. Alright. I'll tell you. But Henry can't know. At least not for a few more years. I don't think he's quite old enough." She leaned in close, peering conspiratorially over each shoulder, "You see, Regina, when a person loves someone else very much, he or she can be filled with certain _feelings_…"

At this point, Regina was fuming, "If you don't cut the bullshit, so help me!" she growled through clenched teeth.

But Emma just laughed, "Relax!" She handed Regina a steaming cup of coffee and winked over the brim of her own, "Does it really matter how I took care of your mother? She's gone, and she won't bother you. At least not until next Thanksgiving. And something tells me even then she won't be much of a problem."

Glowering, Regina grumbled something unintelligible around the lip of her mug as she took a sip.

"Did you hear that?" Emma raised a hand to her ear, "It's the plaintive sound of a grown woman whining because she got what she wanted."

"You didn't have to be so obtuse about the whole thing," Regina huffed, chin tilting up haughtily, "And I was not _whining._"

Emma's blue-green eyes twinkled with mirth, "Of course not. My mistake."

* * *

_Meanwhile at Granny's Bed and Breakfast…_

Mary Margaret sat at a round wooden table, leaning forward on a red velvet seat, nursing a cup of water.

In the seat beside her, Ruby's torso was slumped across the table, hands hanging over the opposite edge, her long hair splayed over her arms. A feeble groan rose from her, "Uuunngh. Too. Much. Food."

"Can you not mention 'food'?" Mary Margaret said with a grimace, "Just the thought makes me feel nauseous."

She sipped cautiously at the water, only to draw a deep breath and clench her fists, "Oh, god. I think I'm going to be sick."

"I told you the water was a bad idea," Ruby mumbled, "Nothing cures a food-hangover like starvation the day after."

"This is the last Thanksgiving I ever have with you."

Ruby raised her head just enough to grin at Mary Margaret, "You say that every year."

"I mean it this time. Never again! My body can't handle such raw consumption!"

"Uhhh huh. Sure."

The stomp of feet announced Eugenia's arrival down the stairs of the Bed and Breakfast. When she appeared, she peered at them over the rim of her square spectacles, which had slid down the bridge of her nose, "Ah. You two are finally awake, I see."

"Barely," Ruby mumbled, blowing out a puff of air so that a few strands of dark hair revealed more of her face.

"Well, I don't know about you two, but I'm starving," Granny announced, "French Toast, anyone?"

Ruby moaned as though in pain, and Mary Margaret clapped a hand to her mouth, shaking her head.

Granny shrugged, "More for me, then."

* * *

**Yes, that mention of Risk was a tip of the hat to my one shot. What? I'm not allowed a little self-promotion?**

** And not **_**all**_** sable comes from Russia. Just a majority. **

** Oh! And I had a question about Cora using technology. Remember, folks, in this here story Cora is much like the residents of Storybrooke in that she doesn't remember who she is and has been living a life dictated by the curse. She just doesn't live in Storybrooke. Because presumably Regina wouldn't actually want her around all the time. **

** Ok, fine, so I didn't think that part through very well. But it's not that big of a pill to swallow, so bottoms up!**


	23. Chapter 23

**This is it! The last chapter!**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: OUaT is not mine.**

* * *

When Emma moved into Regina's house, it was a slow affair.

Like a cancer she crept, her presence becoming steadily larger, dominating the surrounding landscape. Regina would find pieces of her in the most random of places. A brush on a table in the foyer downstairs, its bristles bearing fine gold hairs. Toothpaste and a toothbrush hidden in a drawer in the downstairs bathroom. A spare set of clothes tucked away in the study. A spare pair of tacky children's scissors, purple-handled and blunt-edged, on a shelf in her office. An indestructible titanium spork used for camping camouflaged amongst her own impeccable silverware. Leftovers from Granny's diner stashed in the fridge behind the jam jars and the kalamata olives.

Small things. Insufferable things. And every diminutive discovery made Regina's eye twitch.

It became a sort of game between the two of them; Emma did so love her little games. She would hide something in the house everyday, and Regina would take it upon herself to find whatever it was at any cost. It began as a complete nuisance, to be perfectly honest, yet somehow grew on her – as malignant masses are wont to do. She found herself enjoying the Easter egg hunt in spite of her reservations.

Once she would have confronted Emma, thrown the nick-knacks at her from across a room, aiming to maim. But now...Now she merely took a small measure of pleasure in finding the objects, and simply let them be. If there was absolutely no getting rid of Emma, then she may as well try to enjoy herself. Or at least ignore any potential vexation. Besides, anxiety was bad for the skin.

On the other hand, Emma seemed completely oblivious to their little game. Not once did she mention the hidden treasures, though she easily spent more time at Regina's house than she did at Mary Margaret's . Only Henry spoke of it, and only then to tease his mothers. Whenever he did, Regina would shoot him a brook-no-nonsense glare, and he would hide a grin and return to dutifully finishing his vegetables at dinner.

In fact, the subject was only ever broached one morning by Regina herself.

Emma had just emerged from the en suite bathroom, hair damp, the air behind her billowing with steam from her recent shower. As she draped a towel around her shoulders, Regina, shrugging into a dark blazer in front of a floor to ceiling length mirror, said, "Miss Swan, if you're going to leave clothes in the house, then at least have the decency to put them in a drawer like a civilized person."

Emma paused, then continued towards the foot of Regina's bed, from beneath which she pulled said spar set of clothes, grinning, "I seem to remember you implying that you'd rather have your teeth pulled than free up closet space for me."

"I'm feeling particularly gracious today," Regina retorted dryly, fluffing up her hair with her fingers and turning to regard herself in the mirror, "So, don't push your luck."

Months passed, and, as they did, more and more closet space seemed to become devoted to Emma Swan. Even the kitchen eventually fell to her wiles; the titanium spork joined by travel mugs with flaking rubber seals, which Emma used for coffee on her way to work in the mornings. Though the clothes scattered across the house vanished and reappeared in drawers in her bedroom – a small blessing.

And yet it had all grown so routine, this creeping invasion. After a few months Regina hardly noticed when new items began to appear.

She could not pinpoint the exact moment when the game ceased to be a game, and became normal. Truth be told, the very thought somewhat terrified her. Not that she would ever admit that.

Eventually the inevitable happened.

It occurred one night – just a completely unextraordinary evening – while they were sitting in bed, Regina reading a book, Emma fiddling with a tablet computer, playing a game in which she launched birds in a sling at little constructions protecting pigs.

Emma pulled back on the sling with her finger and released it, announcing without preamble, "MM says I should just grow a pair and ask to move in with you already."

Regina calmly continued reading, "Do you do everything Miss Blanchard says?"

"If I did that, then I'd have proposed to you already," Emma snorted.

"Is that what you want?"

Emma froze, "The moving in? Or the engagement?" she asked warily.

"The moving in, obviously."

After heaving a sigh of relief, Emma replied with a shrug, "Well, it's not really my call, is it?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Regina scoffed, turning a page, "It's not like I have any choice in the matter."

"What happened to: '_We are strictly sex-buddies, Miss Swan. Don't go above your station.'_"

Regina raised a cool brow and gave Emma a disapproving stare over her glasses at the sheriff's high-pitched mimicry.

Emma just rolled her eyes, "You know what I mean."

Lips pursing into a narrow line, Regina marked her book and set it aside, "Adapt or die," she said succinctly, taking off her glasses and placing them atop the book on her bedside table, "That's my motto. Always has been."

But Emma grinned, "Admit it. You like having me around."

With a disdainful sniff, Regina turned out the light beside her and pulled the duvet over her, "Don't turn this into something it isn't, Miss Swan," she chastened lightly.

A low chuckle accompanied a great deal of shuffling as Emma wriggled in close, "If it's any consolation," she murmured through a content smile, which Regina could feel on her shoulder, "I rather like you too."

* * *

**That mention of "bad for the skin" was a tip of the hat to the original Evil Queen, who was supposed to be the embodiment of vanity, or some such nonsense. Bah. All those fairytales were like Aesop's Fables: they all had a moral to the story. **

** And that's it, folks! Thanks for sticking around this long!**

** With this story updated, all my stories are now completely done! Finished! No more fanfics! WOOOHOOOO!**

**BTW *nudge nudge* Did you see what I did there with the whole, "It's not like I have any choice in the matter"? Did'ya? *nudge* Ok, I'm just being annoying now. I'll stop.**

** KORE OUT!**


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